


Impoverished by Providence.

by One_Real_Imonkey



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, American Revolution, Angst, Background Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, On Hiatus, Period Typical Attitudes, Reunions, War, reunited, romance is not the focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 43,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/One_Real_Imonkey/pseuds/One_Real_Imonkey
Summary: Alexander Hamilton always knew the Hamilton’s weren’t his real family. His father had found him in the forest abandoned, and brought him home. It was a difficult life, and they never had enough, but it was better than nothing and he was grateful. Until one day, when his father is long gone and his mother is dead, he finds an old journal of his fathers, detailing his criminal lifestyle, and it changes everything..George Washington had only lived in the Caribbean for three years, but they were three of the most important years of his life. He and his wife had had their son there, they’d named and raised him. Until one day he woke to burglars in the house, and found the crib empty. No matter how hard he searched, he could not find his son and it changed everything..In the summer of 1778 Alexander Hamilton rides into George Washington's camp and everything changed again.On Hiatus.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Benjamin Tallmadge, Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & George Washington & Martha Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & Hercules Mulligan, Alexander Hamilton & Martha Washington, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, George Washington/Martha Washington, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 451
Kudos: 370





	1. George 1756-59.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own.  
> The update schedule should be pretty frequent, maybe every 2-4 days.  
> Please enjoy.

Barbados was a beautiful place, George decided, arm around his wife. He'd chosen to take a posting there to be near his brother, Lawrence, as he battled his sickness, and had refused to leave her  behind when the posting could last years. On the voyage over, they’d discovered, to their delight, she was pregnant. 

A few months later and he held a beautiful little boy in his arms, wife by his side. God, it had been a minute he’d wanted never to end, as his little Alexander gurgled against his chest and his lovely Martha leant against him and cooed. He was so small, so... fragile, more precious than any gem and worth more than any fortune.

He'd been terrified when Alexander had come into the world. Not only for Martha, and the strain of pregnancy, but because they hadn’t thought their child would come for almost another month. He'd been so scared... but then he’d been brought to his wife and tiny new-born's side. Alive and safe and healthy. Lawrence had been the first to congratulate them, looking  healthier than he had in months at the joy of meeting his nephew.

Lawrence died just after Alexander turned one, a sombre affair, but somehow, surrounded by the bright trees and flowers of the island, he found it in himself to celebrate his brother's life even as he mourned his passing. He held Martha and Alexander close that night, dreams of losing them haunting his sleep. 

He still had to work, he was a soldier after all, but his rank and status afforded him a nice home in a good area for his wife and son to live in, and he spent more time at a desk and inspecting his men than he did fighting. Not that there was much fighting, beyond criminals and pirates.

He was glad he moved to the island. 

.

.

.

“Alexander, I'm going to give you the world someday. You'll never have to fear, never go hungry, not as long as I'm here, little one. I'll keep you safe, I promise.”

Alex gurgled a giggle and pointed at the tropical birds flying overhead, “Bright bird. Loud bird.”

“You didn’t listen to a word I just said, did you?”

His son looked sheepish, but still amused. It scared George how quickly Alexander had reached two. How little time seemed to have passed. Suddenly, he was climbing stairs and beginning to string words together and running off in every direction as fast as his little feet could take him. No longer the babe who could seemingly be held in an open palm. Still, he’d treasure every moment. He lifted his son onto his shoulders and turned to find Martha. Surely, she’d finished buying whatever it was she was looking for by now.

He'd’ve let Alexander walk beside him, but he had developed a habit of running off after the first shiny shell or pretty rock he could see. He'd already crashed into several people by accident, having a two-year olds sense of spatial awareness. No, it was safer to keep Alexander off the ground. Kept his clothes clean too.

“Papa, s’mama.”

Alex pointed forwards to where his mother was walking towards them, a new scarf draped around her neck. George couldn’t help but marvel as to how the scarf brought out the colours in her eyes.  God, he loved his wife.

“Thats right, Lex, it’s your mama.”

.

.

.

It was the crash that roused him, then a second that had him jumping from the bed. George had his gun from his bedside and was moving before he’d even processed what was happening. The crash had come from downstairs.

There was someone in the house.

He whispered for Martha to stay where she was, safe, as he investigated. He didn’t know if she’d woken from the crash or his getting up, but he wasn’t willing to let her be hurt by intruders. He was the soldier. 

He slipped down the stairs quietly, gun drawn, but a just as he reached the bottom, there was another crash, louder than the first two, and Alexander cried out from upstairs. They bolted, making off with silverware and vases. It wasn’t much to him, expensive but not sentimental. The house had come furnished, and it seemed his own things were untouched. He would need to go to the local law enforcement over this break in, perhaps the thieves could be caught and his possessions returned.

He checked the rest of downstairs to make sure they were all gone, and shut the door, making a mental note to get a hold of a locksmith to fix it. On his way back upstairs, he paused. He needed to check on Alexander. Martha had surely already done so, but he wasn’t leaving until he knew Alex was calmed back to sleep.

As he opened the door, glass crunched under his feet. Martha, oh lord, Martha was sprawled on the floor.

And Alexander...

Alexander wasn’t there.

“Papa! Papa! Mama!”

George bolted to the window. There was a man running across the grass in the darkness, his son squirming in their grasp. The ladder they’d used fallen so he could not follow. He gripped the windowsill.

“Alexander!”

For two critical seconds, he froze. Martha, his beloved wife, lay behind him, who knew how injured, maybe dead, but the man with Alexander was getting away.

He had to find his son.

He sprinted down the stairs and out of the house. Once on the street he ran in the direction of the kidnapper, but he was too late. The man was gone, and his son with him.

A few minutes into his chase, he is by chance bumped into by another soldier, one he knew well who’d heard Alexanders screams for help and had decided to run outside to see what was happening. Within minutes the two of them were running deeper into the town, looking for his son, while his wife went to check on Martha.

He didn’t return home until the sun was high in the sky and his feet too weak to carry him, head hung with shame. The rest of his unit and the local authorities had been made aware of the break-in and would be continuing the search, but he had failed. Martha had tears down her face and a  bandage over his head, but he couldn’t look in the eye. He'd failed them.

Failed his wife, failed his son.


	2. Alexander, 1759-1776.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> Ok, so you may have noticed I've shifted a few of the dates slightly since I posted the first chapter. I had a mini timeline crisis after posting the first chapter where I realised I hadn't quite worked it out properly. I've fixed it all now, don't worry.  
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy.

Alexander knew he’d been adopted. If nothing else he looked nothing like the other Hamilton’s, so much so that people assumed his mother was a whore who’d cheated on their dad at first glance. They usually apologised profusely if they stayed long enough to learn that she was the saint who’d adopted him instead. 

It didn’t stop the whispers. The ‘I can’t believe the whore makes her son spend time with her bastard’ statements that followed him and James as they shopped or worked. 

But he could manage it. 

Then their father left, and he knew he was supposed to feel awful about it. This was the man who’d rescued him form certain death, but Alex wasn’t sure that made up for the other things. The drinking, the gambling, the way he treated their mother. 

No, Alex wasn’t sorry he was gone. 

It just made things harder, that was all. They'd spend less on food, he and Jamie would work more hours, Maman would look more stressed, but they’d manage. Pete, their cousin, started spending more time with them, helping out with food or money if they struggled. 

For two years, things were fine. 

Then the Fever blew through the island, and he and Maman fell sick. They couldn’t work, they couldn’t sit up, the world was a blur of pain and heat and he’d known with a painful certainty, no-one expected them to live. 

No-one expected him to live. 

Not even Maman. She'd apologised to him, and it had cut through his delirium like a knife. She'd apologised for not giving him more, for getting him sick, for not being able to afford him a doctor. 

He wrapped himself in her arms and tried to tell her she needn’t apologise. She was the best mother any child could ask for, she’d saved him. If 12 years were all he got, it was 10 more than he would have had without her. 

The next morning, he woke, fever broken, and she was gone. They'd pulled him out of her arms, and by her funeral he was recovered. 

He worked and worked and worked. 

It was just a little harder, that was all. 

. 

. 

. 

“Jamie. I... I’ve been having these weird dreams.” 

“Dreams, Alex? I didn’t think you slept enough for dreams, all that work you do.” 

“Funny, but really. I... it's probably nothing, but...” 

“Hey,” James slumped down next to him, turning so they were face to face and pushing down the book he was hiding behind, “Alex, what’s wrong?” 

“I think I saw my parents, my birth parents, I mean. Their faces... they were so clear when I was dreaming but now that I'm awake... I can’t remember them clearly. And... and I've been having them for a while, and at first it was just someone yelling my name, but now... God they’re becoming more and more clear. These dreams...” 

“Alex...” 

“But they didn’t give me away. Someone picked me up, of my bed, and then they were yelling for me. Yelling my name.” 

“Alexander! Dad is a piece of shit, but I don’t think he took you from your bed. He saved you, Alex.” 

“Maybe not him, but I think someone did. I... I don’t think they abandoned me, Jamie, I think I was taken. No, I know I was taken! They might be out there; they might have been looking for me. They might still be looking for me.” 

“Or they abandoned you, or they moved on. Alex, it’s been 13 years since dad brought you home, chances are they’ve got new kids now. You don’t need to worry about all that, you have a life here, you have a job and me and Pete. We'll get out of debt and you'll get an education; you’ll do amazing things. Where you come from doesn’t matter, it’s where you’re going, Alex. Blood or not, we’re brothers, never forget that.” 

“But Jamie...” 

“Let it go, Alex. We have more important things to worry about.” 

. 

. 

. 

Alex didn’t let it go. After Maman had died, he’d discovered many of his father's journals tucked away, but he'd never bothered to look through them. Partly it was because he hated the man he called father, for being an alcoholic, for being so in debt, for leaving them penniless and without a way to go on. Between that and how busy he had become with work to keep afloat financially; he’d had neither the time nor will to read them. 

But the thought was always there. If his father had a journal of the day he was found, he might get the truth. A truth he’d never cared to search out while he had his Maman and his brother and cousin, never needed to. He's been happy enough with knowing he had been found and given a home. 

Except these nightmares had started and now he had so many questions about his being found, but everyone who could answer them was gone and the only path left for the truth was in these journals. 

Still, he was working dawn to dusk every day and straining his eyes and pushing his limits until he couldn’t do more than collapse at the end of the day. One meal every day or two just wasn’t enough, there was never enough. He couldn’t read them; he didn’t have the time or the energy. Staying alive was hard enough, the three of them barely getting by. 

Someday he wondered why he was still trying, if all that his life would ever be was the constant exhausting struggle. His Maman had lived and died in the struggle, like her parents. His father had abandoned them to find something better than it, but his true escape had been that he drunk himself into oblivion, and them into debt. If that was all life would be, why struggle on? But his brother insisted he’d get an education and a better life, insisted there was a brighter future, talked of other lands beyond the island and revolution, and he clung to it. He had too. 

His Maman had told him not to waste his life, to work for something better, and he’d promised her he would. He and Jamie and Pete, they’d keep moving forwards, until they didn’t have to struggle anymore. 

Then one day he stumbled home to find Pete hanging from the rafters. 

Suddenly things were harder than ever and his happiness was waning. Sure, things were awful, but he’d had enough to be happy within it. Now, now he was struggling to find motivation, to struggle on, and he was more curious than ever. 

Who was he? 

In the days between Pete’s death and his funeral, Mr Turner forced him not to come into work. He did the same to James. They'd still be paid; they just weren’t allowed to work. They needed to grieve. 

But Alex worked through his grief, literally, and knew he’d lose his mind with nothing to do, so he cracked open one of the journals to a random page and read. 

. 

_January 7_ _th_ _, 1757. Port Francisca, Hispaniola._

_Items sold:_

_2x gold_ _candelabras_ _._

_5x gold rings._

_1x swan broach._

_Items stolen:_

_42, Rosen Avenue: Silver Candelabra x2, silver plates x3,_

_12, Governors Lane: China Vase x1, musket x4, emerald and ruby encrusted broach x2, diamond earing set x1, emerald and ruby necklace x1, emerald and ruby bracelet x1, Emerald ring x1._

_The Porter House: diamond ring x1, taxidermy deer x1, pistol x4._

_Setting sale to sell them in Port Royal._

_James Hamilton._

. 

_January 14_ _th_ _, 1757. Port Royal, Jamaica._

_Items sold:_

_2x silver candelabra._

_2x silver plates._

_4x muskets._

_2x_ _jewelled_ _broach._

_1x_ _earrings_ _._

_1x necklace._

_1x bracelet._

_2x rings._

_2x pistols._

_No idea what to do with the deer or the spare vase, candelabra or plate. Wood and I are keeping one of the pistols each._

_Items Stolen:_

_5x cast iron skillets._

_1x ceremonial dagger._

_2x formal dresses._

_12x silk handkerchiefs._

_On to the next island._

_James Hamilton._

_._

_January 17_ _th_ _, 1757, La Croix, Nevis._

_Home sweet home with $274. If Rachel knew what it was, I did, she’d never forgive me, but the money is good and she needs it for both herself and James Jr. He's almost 5. if I could get more money, I'd be able to spend time with him. If I hadn’t been born into this lot in life, I wouldn’t have to steal to make ends meet._

_James Hamilton._

. 

His father was a crook, not a merchant. He sold his wares, but each ware was stolen. 

Steal on one island, sell on another. 

It was criminal. 

Immoral. 

A thief, stealing from others to make ends meet, as if his gambling and drinking wasn’t shame enough on their family name. Jamie could never learn of this, he loved his father despite their being abandoned, despite all his flaws, this would upset him terribly. 

And, he found as he read on, it was his whole crew. They were... basically pirates. 

If his Maman was still alive, this news would kill her. 

He wanted to bury the books, burn them. 

Still, he was curious. More curious than ever. He remembered his dreams, the visions of someone appearing above his bed, and... 

He wasn't reading these journals to learn something; he was reading it to confirm something he already knew. 

. 

_September 11_ _th,_ _1759, The Bridge Town, Barbados._

_Today was awful. It is as though the Universe is intent on showing me how much of a failure I am to my family. Today I bumped into a rich man from the colonies with his wife and son, a soldier, but rich enough that he’d probably never need to work a day in his life. That boy was wearing far finer clothes than anyone his age should ever need, seeing as he will just grow out of them, and his wife adorned with jewels and an elegant dress unseen in port towns like mine. She bought a silken scarf off of me, spent more money on it than I've_ _ever_ _been able to spend on Rachel._

_It looks like he’s a rich_ _rich_ _man, with a nice big house surely filled with goods to trade. So maybe I can make his life a little more painful tonight, liberate them of a few items of clothing or_ _jewellery_ _, maybe a candelabra or two._

_Besides, they work for the British, who are the reason my family suffers so. It's only karma to turn it back upon them._

_James Hamilton._

_._

_September 12_ _th,_ _1759, The Bridge Town, Barbados._

_I am an impulsive man, but for the first time in a long time, a bitterly happy one. It is_ _regretful_ _that I may only be able to take pleasure in the suffering of others, but how glorious it is._

_And more so, I have found a way to please my wife. She wanted another child, and I have found her one._

_Right out of the bed of a rich man's home. The rich man I wrote about in my last entry, the one whose wife bought a scarf off of me and son looked like some miniature Tory prick._

_From_ _The_ _Crawford House, currently occupied by a rich family whose patriarch is a rich and ranking soldier stationed here, my crew and I have stolen:_

_Plates x12_

_Candelabras_ _x5_

_Vases x4_

_Ceremonial Sword x1_

_Pistol x1_

_And child x1._

_He is, I think, about 2 years of age. Not only will Rachel love him, and our inability to conceive is cured by adopting the brat, but a rich couple lose the one thing more important to them than their money._

_Of course, Rachel may wonder where I have acquired a child from, but many children are abandoned by poor parents who cannot afford them, or orphaned by plagues and piracy. I shall tell her I found the boy abandoned on the streets by the edge of the city, alone and scared._

_He knows his name, and although he cries for his mama and papa, he can hardly speak well enough to tell anyone he was stolen, and by the time he is old enough to do so, he will have surely forgotten it because that is the_ _fickle_ _brilliance of a_ _child's_ _mind._

_I hope those smug rich bastards suffer their loss._

_James Hamilton._

. 

Stolen. 

Alex sunk to the floor. 

He wasn’t found. 

He was stolen, from his bed, from his family, by his thief of a father. 

His kidnapper. 

Didn't that make James Hamilton Sr his kidnapper, not his father? 

He dropped the book in favour of holding his head in his hands. 

He was stolen. 

His Maman hadn’t known, his brother hadn't known, but he was stolen. 

. 

. 

. 

“James, I was kidnapped, I know I was.” 

“Not this again, Alex...” 

“I’m not saying it was father, I'm saying that it happened, I'm sure of it. The memory is so vivid.” 

The vivid was a lie, but he had the facts, so what did it matter. 

“And what do you want me to do about it, Lex?” 

“I want advice, Jay. Somewhere out there, I have two parents who had me taken from them.” 

“And what, you want you go find them? Alex, be realistic, it's been 15 years! Even if you had the money, God, think of the possibilities.” 

“What if they’re out there?” 

“What if they’re dead? You want to have lost two sets of parents?” 

“I already have. James, but maybe not forever, not with these ones. Why don’t you want me to have this?” 

“I want you to be happy. God, more than anything I want you to be happy, and all I can see on this stupid wild chase after some people that may or may not exist is pain. Maybe you search and they’re already dead, maybe you find them and they’ve moved on and they don’t want you, or they do but you don’t fit in because you were raised here, I'm scared for you Alex.” 

“What if they’re out there mourning a child they lost and I'm selfishly forcing them to go through more pain?” 

“I just don’t want to see you hurt, Lex. You're the only family I have left, blood or not, and I... I really don’t want you to suffer any more than you already have.” 

“I know Jay, I know.” 

“I don’t want to hear you talking about this anymore, it’s not good for you, Lex. You have the future to focus on, you’re gonna change the world.” 

. 

. 

. 

Jamies death was the worst. He didn’t know how he was supposed to continue on without his brother, the last of his family. The storm had taken everything. The only thing he had left was the damned diary, which he’d given to Mr Turner for safe keeping in case it was necessary in the future. It was more paranoia than anything else. 

So he worked, he salved away day and night for the chance, the chance, he might make it to something else. 

2-years later, when Alexander boarded the ship to New York, he left behind no family and no regrets. All he had was determination, that was enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Please R+R.


	3. Alexander, May-September, 1778

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> Thanks for all the feedback so far, you guys are great.  
> Please enjoy the next instalment.

Meeting the  Legendary George Washington was not something he’d ever expected in his military career.

He'd ridden into the Camp with a missive from General Scott, who he’d been posted with for the last  three months. He never stayed in a camp or with a group often. He worked where he was needed, rather than in any one place. He did as much work as he could, then he was shifted on with valuable information to his next post.

He was making a reputation for himself though, most notably when he and Hercules stole canons from the British in a last-ditch attempt to save their near-surrounded and under-armed camp.

Still, barely an hour after arriving he was being summoned into the Commander-in-chiefs tent, and an hour after that, for the first time in the war, he’d been given an official and potentially  long-term post.

Then, it was an informal whirlwind of introductions as he met the other aides and the Intelligence unit. He was, after several years, reunited with Lafayette, and from the rumours he’d heard, John would be joining them soon. It was a shame Burr was moving on, and that Herc had taken a full-time position in New York, but it was still good to see friends again. 

And good to see that they were as pleased to see him as he was to see them.

It took a week for him to blow them all away with his motivation and speed of writing. He knew there were rumours, either from other camps or people who’d known him when he studied law, but they clearly hadn’t expected a man who didn’t sleep or eat when he had work to do and worked the workload of two men. Three, according to Laf.

It took three weeks for the General to get exasperated at him, after waking him from where he’d fallen asleep at his desk. Three weeks for him to realise that the jokes of the men who’d known him and the rumours of the men he’d worked with were no  exaggeration .

General Washington was one of those men who tended to treat his subordinates like they were his children. This was better, of course, than men who treated their subordinates like children, because at least Washington did see them as adults and understand it, but he was paternalistic.

Alexander did not particularly care for paternalistic.

He had nothing against the man, he seemed like a good leader and a kind person, but people who tried to treat Alexander like he was family, in any way other than brotherly, just grated him. Alexander was not his  son; he wasn’t anyone's son.

The only person whose son he’d consider himself to be was his Maman, the only adult in his childhood who’d truly cared about him. And she was long gone.

All these people who claimed to act like they cared, who had paternal instincts or however they described it... it just didn’t sit right. He was an adult, and he’d made it there himself, without parents. He didn’t need someone to be parental and check on him, no-one had bothered to do so since he was 12.

And true, part of his attitude may have directly spawned from spending 14 of the first 16 years of his life believing incorrectly that he’d been abandoned by his birth parents, and more correctly that he’d been abandoned by the useless man who’d tried to call himself father. He knew it skewed his view. 

Even after he’d found out the truth it had been hard to let go of the resentment that had festered for so long. And even though he’d been kidnapped, part of him asked why they hadn’t stopped it, why they hadn’t searched harder, why they hadn’t found him again. If they were rich, surely that was something they could have done? Had they not tried to look for him because they hadn’t actually wanted him, his conception an accident, and his kidnapping just an easy way to rid themselves of him. It was a venomous line of thought, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to stop it.

Either way, it wasn’t Washington’s job to worry about whether he was eating or sleeping enough, he knew his limits. Washington’s job was to control the army, to lead them to victory.

Alex could take care of himself.

.

.

.

Working with John was fantastic. He had missed his dearest friend more than words could describe, missed his fiery furious passion and his calm and gentle demeaner and the way he could switch between the two. Missed his whip-sharp sense of humour, and the feeling of rightness that came with being near him.

Having John and Laf both with him, constantly, was a  godsend .

Now if only Herc would join them they’d be back together. Ha.

Herc was busy, in an important role, helping perhaps more than any of them were. Alex understood that things came before friendship, before personally happiness. 

Of course, not all was love and friendship. It was a war.

Within a month of his arrival came the Battle of Monmouth.

He learnt soon after that Lee had been a traitor, but they had chosen to shame him as a poor leader rather than sacrifice the war effort or any alliances.

War was hard. There were battles and losses week in week out, and from his desk, Alex processed and co-ordinated it all. He wished he could be on the battlefield, wished he could actually be doing something more than writing letters and reading letters and writing more letters. 

Handling Washington's timetable, organising his information and business, alongside Ben Tallmadge, it was a gruelling task. But Ben was allowed out, Ben was allowed men and to fight. Alex, no, he wasn’t. They said it was because of his speed in writing, his being invaluable in the role he was in. They said they couldn’t risk his dying in the field.

Alex had to wonder if there was more to it. If it had something to do with his size and stature. He was small, lithe, all his strength hidden behind his starved frame. Most of the soldiers in the camp were men who could at the very least afford to eat every day, and they had the builds for it. He, admittedly, had the build of a starved teen.

In no way did he look his 21 years.

It meant, he knew, people underestimated him. They always had, even if they appreciated his mind, they never assumed he had any physical strength. They assumed he could not fight, and more than once had he been protected by another, to his frustration, because they thought he needed it. He wasn’t angry they saw value in him, it was flattering, but he could defend himself, he’d done it for years, literally fought for food or to protect what little money he had, worked long and laborious hours moving merchandise in a dockyard. He was a better shot than half the men in camp.

But he was small, weak-looking, young and needed at his desk.

It irked him, but he kept working. They had a war to win.

Still, welcoming back Ben and Laf and John and helping see to their injuries, it was hard. Hard for someone who hadn’t been allowed to the battle lines themselves, instead serving as a corridor between different parts of the column. The General steadfastly refused to allow him into battle, despite his lengthy experiences before joining his camp, something that annoyed him to no end.

Aside from that, he found General Washington was slowly growing on him. He hadn’t wanted to get close to someone who would look at him in a paternal manner, and yet he’d somehow ended up liking the man and his company.

It was hard not to let the man care. In fact, you couldn’t stop him, he certainly had no way to do it. The man insisted, and Alexander couldn’t help but start to admire him, and worse, care back.

Ben Tallmadge had laughed at him when he’d said as much, Laf had patted him on the shoulder with a smile and John had nodded. But in Johns eyes he saw understanding, something that  endeared the man to him more than any other.

John understood what the others couldn’t, perhaps because it was John, he spilt his fears to in the dark cold nights, alone in their tent. It was John who held him tight under the thin blankets as he spoke of his childhood, wishing he could weep, though no tears ever came. The things he could never tell anyone else, no matter how much he considered a man like Laf or Ben his brothers.

Because he didn’t consider John, bright beautiful John, a brother. What they had was not kinship, it was deeper and far more powerful.

John was the only man he ever told about his father. The only man he ever told of his kidnapper, his kidnapping.

John was the only person alive beside him who knew the truth.

But then again, Alex had observed many a time, love made you do crazy things.

.

.

.

Loving John was easy, even if it was deeply frowned upon.

They could never marry, never hold each other in public, but in private, they were each other's worlds, refuges in the hell of this bloody war, a port in a storm. There was no feeling in the world that could beat being in John’s arms, in the lightning feeling every time they kissed.

If anyone had been allowed to know, they would probably ask why the two of them too the risk? Why they put their lives on the line?

Alex would have responded by asking the lengths they’d go for the one they loved. He imagined that would better explain than any essay he could write detailing every part of John he loved more than the stars themselves.

But no-one ever asked, because no-one ever knew.

Being friends with Lafayette was also easy, and far less frowned upon.

Laf was incredibly witty, if only in French, but Alexanders French was more than strong enough to understand the muttered jokes in meetings and snide sarcastic comments the other officers missed.

He'd started doing the same, just to see the man smile on the harder days, the ones where he missed his wife and his home a little more than usual. It ended up becoming a game.

One that seemed to be driving their General a little bit mad.

If there was  anyone, he would have been willing to tell about himself and John, it would have been Laf, but they couldn’t take the risk, not for anyone.

Being friends with Ben Tallmadge was harder, but no less rewarding.

Ben was like him, at least compared to John and Laf, when it came to childhoods. They'd had to work hard to get where they wanted to go, and they were fighting for an  America that might make what they’d managed easier for others.

A drunkard and a cleaner's son and a reverends son, both managing to go to university when it wasn’t expected of their social class, both choosing to do more because they’d been granted a boon most hadn’t.

Ben was also incredibly smart, far more than most people gave him credit for. Alex had never met anyone so good at knowing if someone was telling the truth or lying, and he commanded  incredible respect from his men, something Ben had jokingly attributed to his time  corralling children as a schoolteacher before the war.

If there was anyone, he would tell about his childhood, it would be Laf and Ben.

Besides John of course.

He considered both men brothers, as much as he considered Jamie his brother, and part of him, most of him, thought they deserved better than the lie, thought Ben would probably see right through it anyway. But telling them, telling anyone, it was almost impossible to get the words out. He had to fight for every bit of respect held, and telling people he was raised by the thief who’d kidnapped him would be social suicide.

He’d had to tell John, he trusted that man with his life and his heart, but Laf and Ben, he could never quite get over the fear that they would leave him, decide he wasn’t the sort of person they wanted to be  associated with.

And then Washington would find out and he’d be moved on again or fired or worse.

Sins of the father and all that. It was why he’d never reported Sr in the first place, he’d have ended up in jail for the crimes of the man despite being the victim, and from there he’d have likely been inducted into the British army. No, reporting him had never been on the cards.

No, he would not let that man ruin his life any more than he already had. He had a future to focus on, like Jamie had said, and he was not letting anything stop him.

As far as the world knew, James Hamilton Senior had saved him, and John Laurens was just his closest friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.   
> This might be the last fluffy chapter you get for a while so I hope you enjoyed it, the angst is coming.  
> Please R+R.


	4. George, September, 1778.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> I hope you enjoy...

He was going  crazy; he was sure he was.

George was losing his mind. It was just an emotional time of year for him, that was all. The day of his son’s disappearance, 19 years past, and the pressures of the war. That was all it was.

“No, Ben, it’s Alex’s birthday tomorrow, we’re making him take the evening off.”

“I hardly need to, what's in a birthday anyway, John?  It's just another day.”

“Honestly Alex...”

“I’m serious, I’ve always worked through my birthday, and I have more than enough to do to justify doing the same this year.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, is it actually your birthday?” Tallmadge had asked, “I mean, your actual birth date?”

“Nah, don’t think so, but it’s the day my father found me, so that’s the day we use.” 

“Wait, maybe I misunderstand, found?” 

“Yeah Laf, I was adopted by the Hamiltons when I was little. All these years, have I really never told you that?”

George Washington hadn’t meant to overhear his Aides' conversation, but he’d realised how little he knew about his Aide and he’d been curious. Lafayette, Laurens, Tallmadge, Brewster and Hamilton deep in conversation was hard not to listen into sometimes. They were loyal people, but it meant getting the truth of their opinions could be difficult, hense his sometimes ‘overhearing’ their conversations.

"Hamilton, where are you from?” Brewster asked, “It’s the Caribbean, right?”

“Nevis to be specific. Why?”

“I’ve been there, before the war I worked as a whaler, and before that I ended up on a merchant ship for a while, teenage job spiralled out of control, I'll tell you when I'm drunk enough for it, Benny knows the full story, but anyway, we went in and out of La Croix, dock 17, and... chances are I'm wrong, but I remember knowing a James Hamilton Jr who had a brother called Alex.”

“Oh yeah, Jamie was my brother.”

“Was?”

“He was killed in the hurricane about 6 years ago. The whole of dock 17 was lost to the sea.”

“Oh, I... I’m sorry.”

“Yeah me too.”

“That was a bit of a mood killer, huh.”

“The point is, I was adopted by the Hamiltons when I was a little, way my father told it, he found me abandoned on Barbados while trading, between the outskirts of the port town and the forest and he convinced my mother to take me in when he got back home. She always said she didn’t need convincing and I don’t doubt it, she was a Saint.”

He hadn’t even known Alexander had, or used to have, a brother. Nor that he’d been adopted.

“You don’t remember it?” Lafayette asked, “How little were you?”

“I was two. Ish. We think. Toddling about and talking, but far too young to remember any of it now, at least, everything from before it is gone.”

Two, George thought. His own Alexander had been two, no, this wasn’t his son. It wasn’t fair to Hamilton to put his own grief onto him. His son was gone, dead, lost forever. A ghost to haunt him for his failure as a father.

But then... he’d see Hamilton’s eyes light up and, for a second, he’d see Martha in them, see his smile and see his own reflection in it, oh so clearly, and Alexander, he had the same name, he was the right age, he had been found only a day after his own Alex had been taken, and in the Caribbean, on the same island.

God, had the man who took his son just dumped him in the woods to die? 

Was this his son, raised by another couple in poverty because he hadn’t been able to protect him? Was this his son, raised by gracious people who had so little and took him in anyway after he was abandoned by the man who took him? 

Why take him, if they were just going to dump him on the city edge to die? What reason could they have, except to cause pain? Had they not been regular thieves, but instead people with a grudge against him?

The chances of this being his Alexander were oh so slim, but still, he couldn’t let it go.

His and Martha's faces were reflected in Hamilton’s, the dates and places matched.

God, he stepped away from the  divider in the tent and sank onto his bunk.

Alexander Hamilton was Alexander Washington.

Alexander Hamilton was his son.

As he let the thoughts  form, he knew them to be true.

Even further back, he could hear their voices clearly, and the next part of their conversation cut through him.

“You ever think about looking for your birth parents? I mean, just to know.”

“No, not really.”

He shuddered, full body, and tried not to throw up. Alexander didn’t want them. He thought you abandoned him, George, he reminded himself, of course he doesn’t want to know you.

“I mean, there was a time when I did, when I was a teenager, I had these really vivid dreams about them that made me curious, but it’s been so long. I mean god, I’m 21, I was 2, that 19 years. If they abandoned me, I wasn’t wanted. If it was something else, if I got lost or was kidnapped and escaped or anything like that, what are the chances they’re still looking, and haven’t given me up for dead? Hell, they probably have 5 other kids, one of whom is named Alexander, and they pretend they never had the first. Or hell, maybe they’re dead and gone and looking would be a waste of time. Blood doesn’t make family, my mother and brother never cared about blood. And I'm building something for myself here and if I survive the war, I'll keep going. I don’t think there’s anything finding my blood parents can offer me now.”

No, Alexander, he wanted to scream, we never forgot you, we never replaced you. 

19 years but he wouldn’t hesitate to bring his son home and never let him out of his sight again. And Martha, oh she’d be so happy.

But Alexander didn’t want them. He didn’t want them. He’d lost the people he’d called family and had to grow up  quickly and on his own and he didn’t need a family any more so he didn’t want them.

And he said vivid dreams. The cold weight in his stomach sank further. What if Alexander recognised him? What if that was why he’d refused to let him close, why he’d rebuke George calling him son?

Surely, he'd request reassignment, move to another unit, if he knew. Then again, Alexander want to build something for himself, and being close to the Commander in Chief was the best place to be. Maybe he was willing to put up with it for his future plans. Was he angry George hadn’t realised it was him?

‘I’m  notcha son.’ muttered under his breath because he knew George was his father but hated him for abandoning him, for not finding him, not saving him.

He had thought for one blissful second, he was forgiven, that Providence had bought his son home to him, but no, for his failure he was being punished still. And this was the worst punishment any father could be given. 

He had failed his son; it was no wonder the boy didn’t want him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	5. Alexander, October, 1778.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> Next chapter, thanks for all the responses so far, they mean a lot.  
> Please enjoy.

Alexander had been tasked with escorting the General’s Wife into camp. It was October, which meant it was time for her to come to stay for the winter. He'd never met her, having only joined the camp that summer. He was rather excited to meet her, to tell the truth, because the men spoke of her the way  preachers speak of angels.

He'd taken Caleb Brewster and a few of the Dragoons to a rendezvous about an hour away from the main camp to meet up with her own  convoy and bring them the rest of the way. It was technically supposed to make sure that the carriage hadn’t been ambushed and filled with enemies to drive themselves into camp more than protection, but it was not a protocol often cared about. They were in safe territory.

He was pretty sure the only reason he’d been sent on this venture was to get him away from his desk. 

The carriage arrived in the clearing only a few minutes after they had, and he greeted the General’s Wife with a smile. It was the first time he’d ever met her and every story he’d ever been told about her presence in a room that he’d once believed to be exaggerated were immediately proved true.

They took a short break to let her stretch her legs, talk over the journey so far and to allow the horses to rest and be watered, before they  continued their journey.

Not long into the journey, he pulled his reigns and moved himself next to his friend.

“Hey, Caleb, you were at the meeting, was there anything I was supposed to say to Mrs  Washington ?”

“Not that I remember, why?”

“I don’t know. Since I saw  her, I've had the nagging feeling I'm forgetting something, I assumed it was a message. I have no idea what I've forgotten or what it has to do with her though.”

“Ah, sucks. Don't worry about it, it’s probably not important. I'm sure it’ll...”

Alexanders head shot up at the same time as Caleb cut himself off. 

There was a tree across the road. Holding his hand up to call a halt, he dismounted, drawing his pistol. While the tree could have been old or infected in some way, the soil was unsaturated and the weather had been far too mild to fell a tree of this size, and the path had been clear an hour before when they’d journeyed through. This part of the path, this part of the valley pass, it was thin...

They couldn’t turn a carriage around  here; they were boxed in!

His fingers brushed against the markings of an axe on the end of the tree.

He sprinted back to their convoy, yelling orders to take arms, to make ready for an attack, but he was too late for his warning to have any real meaning, and the carriage driver slumped off his seat as a gunshot echoed around the valley.

Redcoats flooded from the trees, maybe 25-30 of them and every man in their unit had one thought:

They had to protect Mrs Washington.

The men snapped into action, drawing the Generals wife away from the line of fire and readying their own weapons to fire back.

It was a fierce fight, but fortunately a short one. They were equally numbered, an apparently better shots than the British. Some of the shots came closer than he would have liked, but none of them hit him or their charge.

Behind him there was a yell and Simmons dropped, knife in his back, Alex spun and put a hole through the neck of the redcoat who had snuck up behind them.

Within minutes, it was over, and all that was left was quiet and the scent of gunpowder and death.

They’d won, and with minimal casualties, so the men got to work shifting the tree and clearing the path so they could leave. The faster they moved the faster they could get to camp and get the Generals wife to safety.

Alexander saw something someone else hadn’t though, a near-dead Redcoat with a loaded pistol, aiming at the General’s Wife. There was no time to load his gun, no time to attack the man, no time to stop him.

So, Alexander stepped between him and his target.

He froze at the force of the wound, then dropped. The gunman wouldn’t have the time or strength to reload, but Alexander didn’t stay conscious long enough to find out what happened to him.

.

.

.

_ Alexander woke to a loud crash. He was lying in a bed, but he couldn’t move or talk. It was a real bed, not his own bunk, or any of the bunks in the camp or medical tent. _

_ Why would he be in a medical tent? He couldn’t remember. _

_ It had bars on the side, wooden ones, but he wasn’t in a cell, he wasn’t a captive. Someone was screaming, a child, so it took a second to realise it was him. _

_ A man loomed over him, and he realised with a start it was his father, James Hamilton Sr. How could it be him; he’d been missing from Alex’s life for 11 years and he looked younger than Alex could really remember? _

_ A woman yelled from his right; he rolled his head to look for her.  _

_ “Mama!” he heard his own voice cry, high and scared. _

_ “Get away from him!” the woman demanded. It wasn’t Rachel Fawcette, it wasn’t his Maman. But he knew her face, he knew who this was. This was his mother, his birth mother. It was the same face he’d seen in his dreams, and only his dreams, for years. _

_ And he recognised her. _

_ She had a gun, and James Hamilton Sr obliged, but it was a rouse, for as soon as she turned her eyes from him to look over Alex, he struck. _

_ Alex heard himself cry out as she was knocked out, falling to the ground.  _

_ The man picked up and pocketed the pistol, before reaching in and picking him up with ease. Because this was a memory, wasn’t it?  _

_ He was remembering, with more detail than ever before, he was remembering. As James Hamilton Sr absconded out the window, leaving him yelling for his mama and papa as she lay sprawled beside his bed, he knew this was the night he’d been kidnapped. _

_ “Alexander!” _

_ His father, his real father, sounded desperate. He knew that voice too. He recognised the face in the window, even if it was only there for a second. _

_ There was one difference between the other times he’d had this dream and this time. This recollection was vivid. In every detail. He recognised the voices. He recognised the faces. _

_ He  _ _ remembered _ _ the voices. He remembered the faces. _

_ He could see his parents. _

_ Martha and George Washington. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> When I said the comments meant a lot, I wasn't joking. Usually my projects finish at around 8000 words, this one is at 24606 at time of upload and I have more to go and plans for a sequel. The feedback is amazing. Thank you so much.  
> I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	6. George, October, 1778.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this sooner than I usually would, but hey, I'm busy this week and might not get another one up til the weekend so...  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy some more angst.

As Alexander was rushed past him, bleeding heavily and pale as death, George realised he had far too many regrets regarding his son.

They’d galloped into Camp, full speed, his son nowhere to be seen, along with several other men from their group. His wife, he prayed, was safe inside the carriage, but the carriage with bullet holes in the sides and...

They'd been attacked.

“What happened!” he demanded, storming forwards.

“We were ambushed,” Brewster responded, dismounting and handing over his reigns, “there was a tree blocking the path, put there between when we went through and when we came back. We had to...”

Behind them, from the carriage, his wife emerged, dress bloodied. For a second, he panicked, but it faded as she waved off help and stepped to the side, allowing them access.

Then the doctors emerged with Alexander on the stretcher. From the distance, he couldn’t even tell if the boy was alive, but he must be, for they were rushing and holding pressure on his wound. 

They shot past him and into the tent without giving him a glace. Laurens ran after them without being given leave to do so, but he couldn’t criticise.

George skipped the rest of the debrief, waving him to Tallmadge and Billy Lee with a hand. He had to see to Martha. He had to see to Alexander.

“Martha.”

“George.”

He wrapped her in his arms not caring about the blood probably staining his uniform. His sons blood.

“I’m alright, George, they kept me safe.”

“He what!”

He couldn’t help but turn his head to Tallmadge’s yell, but Martha did the same.

“Jumped right in front of the bullet, would’ve hit Mrs Washington otherwise. We thought the bastard was already dead.”

He turned back to Martha.

“Are they talking about Hamilton?”

“Yes... that boy. I didn’t even realise what was happening. The fighting ended and most of them started working on the tree, but he and the men who’d been with me since the start of my  journey . Then he just stepped in front of me, and there was a gunshot.”

“He’s a saint of a man.”

“Have faith, George, it didn’t bleed that much, I kept pressure on it all the way back to camp, it... I'm sure the doctors will do everything they can.”

.

.

.

“I see no reason why he shouldn’t recover,” the doctor said, “he has been spared from infection and the wound has ceased bleeding. Had it hit the shoulder, it would have been a cleaner wound, but it was lower and has done some damage to the ribs and lungs, we have fixed as much as we can and he has shown no sign of new internal bleeding over the last few days. had it been on the other side it would have likely nicked his heart, he was lucky. He will likely sleep for a while yet; he lost a lot of blood, but not too much that he cannot survive it. I have other patients to attend to, sir I'll be back to check on him in an hour or so.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“I’ll excuse myself too, sir. Update me if anything changes, please?”

As awful as everything was, he was glad for John Laurens to get some rest, seeing that he hadn’t left Alexanders side since he arrived back. He was glad that the boy was there to keep him company, but he needed to talk to his wife. He could see she wanted to talk to him, could see it in her eyes.

“He’s our Alex, isn’t he?”

Martha had been helping tend to Alexander since he’d been shot, claiming it was the least she could do for him after saving her life. He'd visited as many times as was respectable without being suspicious, he knew some of the rumours about his ‘collecting young men’ and was not planning on adding to it, the idea so vile it physically sickened him. He had no real issue with sodomy, even if it wasn’t his own inclination, but this was his son.

He didn’t know how Martha could possibly have worked it out, but her tone left no space for arguments. She wanted answers.

“Martha...”

“This is our Alex, isn’t it? Our son?”

He dropped his gaze, unable to stand the pain and anger and disappointment in her eyes.

“I deserved to know, George.”

“Martha, it’s more  complicated ... he...”

She stood, pressing her hands into his upper arms, fury in her voice.

“He is my son, George, I needed to know. How... how long have you known?”

“A few months, but...”

“Months!”

“He thinks we abandoned him, Martha. He thinks... the people who raised him say they found him abandoned by the side of the city, scared and alone, and when no-one  claimed him they raised him themselves. He wants nothing to do with his birth parents. Nothing to do with us.”

Martha's face fell, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Then... then we tell him the truth? That we never abandoned him, that... that we...”

“He won’t listen. He won’t... he’s young and betrayed. If he knew... we’d lose him for good. At least this way...”

“You should have told me.”

She was right. He should have told her, told her the day he worked it out. He'd been so scared of losing his connection with his son, so sure Martha couldn’t take losing him, couldn’t take the exact situations they’d found themselves in.

“I know. I know. I'm so sorry.”

She  leant into his chest and let out a sob.

“He’s dying Geroge. Our son is dying.”

He cupped her head and held her close.

“He’s a fighter, Martha, you have no idea how strong he is.”

Please Son, be strong. Please  survive this. We can’t lose you a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martha Washington is a BAMF.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	7. Benjamin, October, 1778

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeyyyyyy, New chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

“Hey, Alex, how are you feeling?”

Alexander had woken, finally, and to everyone’s relief, about a week prior, but Ben had been on an extended patrol and had only returned that morning. Two and a half weeks of watching him sleep and he’d woken while Ben  was on patrol.

Apparently, Alexander had been quiet, as though preoccupied, since his being shot, understandable, but the rest of their friends were worried. They'd hoped Laurens would return from his mission soon, hopes he could snap Alexander out of it, but he wasn’t due back for another week at least.

“I need to leave, Ben, I need to find a post somewhere else. As soon as I'm recovered enough to ride.”

“What, no, Alex?”

“ Somewhere away from General Washington.”

“Alex, you saved his wife’s life, he’s not... angry at you. Or whatever you’re thinking.”

“No, I... the Washington's, I... they’re my parents Ben. My mother and father. All this time. It's them.”

“What?”

“I... the memory triggered when I got shot, but I think it was actually knocked loose when I saw Mrs Washington. Her face, I had this feeling I was forgetting something, hell, I said so to Caleb. But then I got shot and I... the memory, it was so vivid.”

“You... you must be wrong. The  Washington's , they’re good people, they wouldn’t abandon their child.”

“Ben... I know you know. I know the General’s told you about his first child. He didn’t die, like most people think.”

“How do you... the.... everyone says he died. How do you know he was...?”

“Taken? Because I wasn’t abandoned, Ben. That’s just the ‘official’ story, for lack of a better word. I was taken. James Hamilton Sr stole me from my bed. I've known... I’ve known that I was... kidnapped... since I found Sr’s diaries when I was 16.”

“You... knew? All this time and you never told him, Alex, he’s mourned for years... you’ve been here for... for...”

“ No! No , I didn’t know. Not that the Washington’s were my parents, I wouldn’t have stayed or taken assignment here if I'd known, but I knew that I'd been taken. I found out. Same time I found out he made money, not as a merchant, but by stealing things from people on one island and selling them on the next. I just never realised... never knew...”

“Who your real parents were?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t doubt Alexander was telling the truth about who his parents were, in fact, he’d already guessed.

He was close to Washington, as a friend and confident, and knew that the man had lost a son. Actually, most people knew he’d lost a son, rumours spread fast in militaries and gossip about rich families  travelled even faster, even after all this time, but most believed he’d been killed, or more likely taken by illness, before his third birthday. Ben was one of the few who knew the truth. In knowing the man, he’d learned the date the child had been taken, in being his confident, he’d learned the full story.

So, when Alex had told them about the day he was found, the day after Washington's son had been taken, and the place he'd been found, the same island the Washington’s had lived on, he’d... well actually he’d thought it was a weird coincidence.

But Alex looked like Washington, both of them, an eery mix. And he was the right age. And his story... it was always phrased as ‘my father said’ and ‘I was told’. Somewhere along the line he’d put the pieces together. He'd wondered how Alexander had gone from taken to found, wondered why his kidnappers would just abandon the child they’d stolen, but this made more sense.

He understood why Alex would lie about it, if his father was a thief, he’d keep quiet too. And if he’d been stolen and raised by his kidnappers, no, that wasn’t something he’d advertise. It wasn’t something anyone trying to work their way through the ranks would want their enemies to know and use against them.

“Do you think I should tell them?”

He'd never heard Alexander that quiet before. Small,  unsure .

“I... I think they’d want to know, but I also think it’s our choice. You said before you weren’t planning to look for them, you never said what you’d do if you found them by accident.”

“I never thought I would, I mean, what are the chances?”

“Yeah... You’ve said before you were fine on your own, yet now you’re considering telling them. Why? What changed?”

“ Don’t try your chief of intelligence tricks on me.”

“You wanted my advice.”

“I don’t know... it’s them, I guess. Before it was always abstract, I always... I could always distract myself but letting myself think that they wouldn’t want me or... or that I'd been replaced. I don’t know, they were faceless and nameless before. I could let myself... not think about it, not stress over it. There was always something worse happening that I needed to think about. But now... the Washington's are nice people, the General can be strict, but he’s kind and protective of his men and... I... fuck, I don’t know.”

“Now that you know them, it’s harder to pretend you want nothing to do with them.”

“Yes. I... I like working for General Washington, I genuinely enjoy it, I like the camp, I enjoy being here, I love spending time with all of you, I like being close to John. But I can’t work with him and keep this a secret, I can’t lie to him every day, but if I tell him and he thinks I'm joking, or doesn’t want me, I can’t do that either. I don’t want to lose what we have by telling him... but I can’t lie.”

“You’ll lose it if you leave.”

“I know. But, Ben, what do I do?”

“It’s... I have no idea.”

“ I can’t walk up to him and say ‘General, I think I'm your long-lost son’. He'd think I was mocking him. He’d kill me.”

“I don’t think he’d...”

“Could you... no, I'm not making  someone else tell him.”

“I could. I could tell him your story and see what he thinks?”

“No, I have to be there. I have to see his face to know how he reacts and if I send someone else to do  it, I'll lose my nerve and run and then I'll never know and I'll be labelled as a  deserter .”

“Alex. What if I got Laf and John and Caleb to keep you somewhere so you couldn’t run? Or told him with you in the room.”

“No... no, he’d think I was a coward, and god I might be but... I... I'll work something out. I have an idea, but I'd need Caleb to post something for me. And I have to talk with John first, get his opinion.”

Ben got the awful feeling this was going to go badly, but he hoped everything went well. He hoped Washington got his son back, hoped Alexander got a second, or was it third, chance with a family.

“You never answered my question."

“What?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Constantly. And pained. But I'll recover. I've had more to think about.”

“Of course. And Alex, focus on recovering, then everything else. Winter is on us, you have time.”

.

.

.

“Major, can you stay a minute. You too, William.”

Ben had a bad feeling as everyone but himself and Billy Lee left the room.

“I am in need of advice. Some information has come to my information, but I do not know what to do with it.”

“Sir?”

“I told you both a while past that my son was not taken by sickness as most  presume but kidnapped from his bed.”

They both nodded, but Ben had an awful feeling as to where their conversation was headed, after his conversation with Alexander two days prior. 

“I have recently come into the information that Colonel Hamilton is my Alexander.”

Yeah, this is exactly where he thought and feared this conversation was heading.

“Your son, Sir?”

“Indeed. My situation, my dilemma, is whether to tell him when I know his opinions on his birth family. The story he believes is a lie though. If I tell him the truth, I fear he will leave, but how do I lie?”

He might be more accepting than you think, Ben mused, but would not say aloud. Did not dare. This was for Washington and Alexander to figure out between the two of them, his own knowledge could not come into it.

“So, your advice?”

How the hell was he supposed to phrase this?

“Are you sure, sir, of how he will react?”

“You know Alexander, Ben, he would leave the camp and find a position elsewhere.”

“You can’t be certain, sir, surely? It wouldn’t be the first time his reaction to something has been the opposite to the expected.”

He did consider it, but I talked him down, don’t worry Sir. He is actually considering telling you, Sir. He does want you, if you were to tell him it would remove his stress about telling you.

“And you, William, what do you think?”

“I... I think you’d have to tread carefully, sir. He... can be...  volatile .”

Volatile was a word, but Ben would laugh and say panicked was a better way to describe the reaction he’d seen the other day. 

“He can be, Sir,” Ben agreed, “but that’s usually an  initial reaction . He's often a little more... rational if you give him a little time.”

“But he does not want family. You heard him say so. He rarely changes his mind over anything.”

“Have you considered talking to him about his family and gauging his reaction for yourself sir ?”

“I have, but he is a rather closed off individual when he wants to be. I fear I'd gauge very little.”

The hell was he supposed to say to that?  God, why was this his situation. Mediating between father and son who both his friends and both knew about each other and both thought the other would reject them.

Had he really been so naive when he joined the army to believe that dealing with adults would be easier than managing a classroom full of children?

He needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New P.O.V. and that P.O.V. is a teacher who realllllly needs a drink. Haha.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	8. Alexander, October-January, 1778-1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is heeerrreeee...  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

Being shot was a curse that kept on giving.

He did not regret it, the General’s wife was a great woman, and the General cared deeply for her, his health was not worth the damage it would do to the war effort should she die.

He was pointedly trying to ignore the ties they had.

But how could he.

His parents. The Washington's. He was a Washington. He was Alexander Washington. This was no trick of the psyche, no, he’d known from the second he’d met Martha Washington that there’d been some memory knocked loose.

He wondered if he would have had that dream had he not been shot, would he still have seen it and remembered?

Well, he wouldn’t know, because he had been shot.

He'd woken several times before actually knowing where he was or what was happening, apparently. It had worried his friends greatly, something he’d been told to stop apologising for.

Once awake, he’d been  informed of his wounds.

A shot through the chest, entrance and exit wounds, lots of bleeding but no infection, small wound to the lung they’d sealed and damage to the bone. 

Time would tell if he recovered his right arm.

It was only then he realised the pain relievers they had him on had numbed his body so much he could not feel the pain.

It was as those same relievers worse off that the pain revealed itself.

His side burnt, and his right arm felt heavy and tingly. It shook, far more at least than his left hand.

He found himself wanting for John, wanting comfort he could not have.

From his bed, he could not move. Even if he’d had the strength, he was not allowed. The doctor refused to risk he might further damage his wound, impressing greatly on him and all his friends that if it were to reopen and begin to blead once more, he would surely die. His body was not strong enough yet to survive further blood loss.

To him specifically the doctor had instructed he immobilise his arm completely if he were to stand a chance of it healing.  Apparently, the nerves for his arm had been damaged by the shot and  more so the bone splinters it had sent off when it cracked the rib.

He could lose the use of his arm.

His writing, his ability with a gun or blade, his usefulness.

For once, he followed the  doctor's orders without complaint.

He slept most of the first week he had woken, and spoke little with his friends. Only John knew of his past in full, only John was he willing to tell about the  Washingtons ’, but John had been sent away on a vital mission.

He changed his mind on who he would talk to when Ben came to visit. The man knew so much already, he could be trusted with the truth.

Ben talked him out of running.

It had been a stupid idea anyway, but he was glad for Bens friendship more in that moment than any other.

John's return a week later was  jubilant .

The man had looked close to tears at seeing him awake, and he wondered not for the first time how sick he must have looked. He'd pressed his forehead to John’s and just breathed for the first time in days.

The biggest issue he had with his recovery, was that Mrs Washington was insisting on being by his side, on nursing him. It was not that he didn’t understand or appreciate it, but this was his mother, his mother who he’d spent years resenting, his mother who did not know the man who had saved her life was her son.

And General Washington was there a lot too.

He knew he was asleep more than he was awake most of the first three weeks following his wound, and that they could have had many a conversation by his bedside.

It was almost  humorous .

His parents sitting at his bedside as he recovered, like any parents should for their own sick children, but they didn’t know he was theirs. They were just that kind, or perhaps indebted.

He had saved the General’s wife.

How easy would it be to tell them, to just say those words, but that was not how words worked. It was not how life worked, nor ease.

Just because the words were easy, it did not mean they would leave his mouth.

Besides, they’d never believe him. A delirious man claiming to be their long-lost son, they’d probably force him from the camp, from their lives. He'd said so to both Ben and John.

He did have a plan to tell them, or at least a plan for how he would tell them if he chose to. John had agreed it was a good idea, Caleb had agreed to help, Ben had offered his support too.

Caleb didn’t know what was happening, no, he just knew Alexander needed something only he could get. He was a good man, and a good friend.

.

.

.

Even once he was back on his feet, Alexander found himself mostly confined to a desk. He'd have celebrated his freedom from the doctor’s tent, but he was still dangerously weak on his feet. His being ambidextrous had never been more useful, for even without good use of his right hand, his left could do his work. He thanked god he was still useful and able to do something.

Through November, as the camp around him prepared for a cold, harsh winter, he wrote missive after missive begging for supplies from their Congress.

He found he could write with his right hand, that it retained its grip and ability, even if it did not have the strength or stamina. It shook too, though he could steady it enough to write. It tired easily and cramped with more pain than he’d ever had in a cramp before, a pain that went from the finger tips to the shoulder and the wound itself. Cramps that stole the breath from his lungs and had more than once dropped him to his knees, for they did not always strike when he was writing, but sometimes in the hours afterwards, when he tried to hold a bowl or spoon as he closed his fingers.

The first time he’d ended up on his knees had been the first bitterly cold day of the month and he’d dropped, tears in his eyes from the pain, shaking and clutching his arm tight. He didn’t know who had run for the doctor, and he did not remember being moved to the medical tent. 

He remembered Mrs General arriving, concern touching her voice as she demanded to know his condition. The General arrived a few minutes after in much the same manner. News of his collapse had travelled fast.

Although still sore with lingering pain, by the time the doctor had started his check, the main wave of pain that had been so disorienting had passed.

The doctor had looked as concerned as the  Washingtons had. He checked over his shoulder and side and arm with a deep frown, before concluding there was no further damage and that what had happened must have been caused by the original wound. 

The cold, he’d theorised, may have triggered it, but without more time, he would not know. 

As the days got colder, the cramps had increased in frequency, but he had been working hard. Perhaps it was simply overuse, another theory the doctor had presented. 

He'd been released, with the welcome recommendation that he should as the winter cooled further share a bunk with someone to generate and preserve warmth to protect his shoulder from the damage the cold might do to it and reduce the winters effects. Many men were being  recommended the same and it was safe to say he and John had no protests.

It was all a good distraction from the other issues in his life. 

Like the  Washingtons , so open in their concern, unknowing of whom their concern was really directed towards.

He doubted they’d care so much if they knew the truth. If they knew he’d given up on them, decided they’d forgotten him and that they did not care. If they knew how long he’d hated them, how long it had festered, they would turn him away.

He could not tell them the truth until he was safe to ride, because there was every  chance they’d ask him to leave.

That was not going to be for a while, no-one trusted him on a horse when they did not if his injury would flare.

Lafayette had practically glued himself to Alex’s side following the second collapse, in case another may happen so he could help. He'd badgered the doctor for advice on how he could assist. Alex was incredibly grateful. If nothing else, it meant he was not being rushed to the poor  man's tent every time they struck. John had in tern badgered Laf for the same information, meaning if one stuck at night, he could assist. That way no-one else had to be keeping watch over Alex at night, he and John could be alone. Not that John was willing to do anything when Alexander was in such a state, no matter how much he asked.

By December the doctor had deemed the main wound healed and Alexander agreed with his assessment. Save for a slight twinge when he rushed and ran in the cold, the pain in his side was gone, as was the bruising and surface wound. It had scared, of course, a small puckered knot of tissue opposite his heart.

His side was healed, but the damage to his shoulder was not.

The doctor had noted his shoulder to be swollen, and had immediately taken to checking it over more thoroughly, insisting on his friends holding him still as he probed areas that sparked with pain that brought cries to his lips. Alexander had bit his lips and shaken into his friends holds as the doctor worked, so blinded by the pain he could not tell you which friends had been holding him.

The doctor concluded there had been a small fragment of bone sent up, one you could feel under the skin if you pushed hard enough, but had not found before for Alexander had always flinched from the pain it had caused, and had decided the best course would be to cut into the shoulder and remove it.

The recovery from that incision was far shorter. Again, it was a period of disorientation and reduced mobility, but the fragment that had been pressing into his shoulder muscles and bones and  nerves was gone.

It did not stop the cramping.

His hand no longer shook, but the cramps still came.

The weather got colder still, until the rivers were  freezing and a thick layer of snow coated the ground.

On the bright side, Washington had been offered a house for the winter, and his desk was in there. It was not much but it was a shield from the cold, and it had a hearth. From the window he watched soldiers falling on their behinds in the ice. 

He and John, when not writing, had been judging the falls they’d seen on the large patch of ice directly I the view of the room’s window. Ben had joined them, but he was also their reigning champion, for his impressive slide across the ice on the way from his tent to his desk, managing not to drop a single sheet of paper as he went.

He'd taken it in good humour as most of the men had, laughing off the shock and mild pain to their cheers and applause.

Alex and John had both clapped as he entered the room they shared to work, and he’d shaken his head with a smile.

They had to find something to do in the winter pause.

Of course, the ice made everyone that bit more protective about his arm, and the cold made it that much sorer. It ached more, but he didn’t stop working.

Except to watch people slip and fall.

Ice and snow  was still something astounding to him. He'd moved to America years ago, and yet he still stared in disgust at the frozen flakes of water falling from the sky.

In all his books, no author had ever quite described snow to him well enough for him to have been prepared for it. 

He remembered his friends’ horror at the coat he’d had in New York the first time they’d met, with winter fast approaching, insisting it would not be thick enough. They'd been right, and Hercules had insisted on giving him a new coat.

They'd all laughed uncontrollably at his absolute disgust and horror at the white powder on the ground, falling from the sky. It hadn’t occurred to them he wouldn’t know what it was, and even Burr had been in fits.

They'd then been so gracious as to explain all the threats of winter, from the dangers of icy rivers and hypothermia to black ice. They'd explained why it was you had to be careful of icicles that may fall or blocks of snow from rooves and how easy it was to become lost in a  blizzard .

He had decided quite  certainly winter was his least favoured season, and this had done nothing to change it.

“You don’t understand, sir,” John had said, one night over dinner, “Alexander loathes winter.”

Laf had snored and added, “Not winter as such, just the cold, and the snow, and the ice.”

“And the storms, and the wind.” John had finished.

“You're both awful. It’s not that I don’t like winter, although I don’t, but I was caught very off guard.”

“How can you be caught  off guard?” Ben had asked. 

“I’ll be honest, I didn’t  believe snow was real.”

The whole room had broken into peals of laughter. Even Mrs Washington had been amused.

“Right,” Caleb had muttered, “you’re from the Caribbean, they don’t have snow.”

“But how did you not know it was real,” the General had asked, “you were well read, and you worked on docks with sailors who’d travelled the world?”

“Yes sir. But books often  describe things that aren’t real and these were the same sailors who believed in Sirens and sea witches and island curses and bands of green and purple light across the sky.”

“Oh Alex, you say that with such distain. I've been on the sea, I've been to your islands, are you telling me there’s no such thing? I know I've seen auroras in the North before.”

“Caleb, really, sirens? I won’t say a word on witchcraft or curses, because there are things outsiders aren’t supposed to know, but I can tell you the most famous spot to spot Sirens and sea witches on Nevis, those women just liked messing with gullible sailors,  we’d laugh about it when our area had shared meals.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, most of the local legends that added mystery to the islands, for the locals, was the guy three doors down drunk in a sheet. Or one of old man Cooper’s parrots. But it was funny and it could be very entertaining to watch, so we don’t say things. Besides there's money to be made off of sailors who believe in some of the random stories we cultivated. I always assumed the people who spoke of snow had just been duped the same as the ones who believed people like Rosalinda were sirens.”

“No, hold up, I saw people off the coast go under the water for at least five minutes before resurfacing.”

“Oh absolutely. It’s a cultural skill, I can hold my breath for almost 14 minutes, at least in moderate waters. Almost everyone I worked with learnt how, it could be lifesaving if you went overboard, and was lifesaving when I was trapped during the hurricane. It was actually used by fishermen who used spears and walked on the seabed for bigger catches. Which is probably something you saw.”

“Thats... impressive. So, how confused were you when you came here and saw snow?”

“He was terrified, it was  incredibly entertaining.”

“John.”

“He was very confused. Had no idea what was happening.”

“I’m being ganged up on.”

“You had a summer coat on, for winter!”

“It’s not my fault you have cold winters, where I'm from seasons were a little more wet and dry than hot and cold. And can I just say I was terrified, and Burr was a better friend than either of you about it.”

“In our defence, Burr was the only one of us who wasn’t hung over. No offence, Lex, but your voice goes up like an octave when you panic.”

“I didn’t know what snow was, and suddenly it was everywhere and falling from the sky, I think my panic was justifiable. It was, to me, apocalyptic.”

It had been an  incredibly amusing evening, and a relaxing one.

He could almost forget the familial ties he was so pointedly ignoring, in favour of friendship and comradery.

Even if it was winter, and snowing.

.

.

.

The cold deepened into January.

Most mornings, he didn’t want to leave the warmth of the blankets and more importantly, John’s body, which radiated heat like the sun.

His arm was not cramping quite as frequently, something the doctor hoped was a good sign, but it was incredibly achy, getting worse as each day progressed. The doctor had recommended a while ago that Alex and John share a bunk to keep warm for his injury's sake, something they’d had few protests to and now he theorised that it was indeed the cold doing the damage and that as his arm was at its warmest at night, that was why the muscles would  loosen in the night and tighten in the day.

The cold had other effects. Mostly, in that he could never quite seem to get warm, he hoped one day to get used to this abysmal climate, but doubted it. He shivered a lot and although he protested his wellness, his desk was mysteriously moved closer to the hearth and a blanket was thrown over the back of the chair.

He didn’t know who did it, but he was  grateful .

He was also very thankful of every friend who brought him a warm drink throughout the day.

He'd only spilt one to cramps, and he’d been away from his desk at the time so none of his work was ruined. A success if  ever he’d had one.

This climate was stressful. He'd never had to worry about cold like this back in Nevis, and sure there had been bitter nights and days where the ocean had chilled him to the bone, but nothing had prepared him for cold like this. Like snow, he hadn’t thought such cold could exist. 

He would adapt to it.

Eventually, Caleb trudged to the big house through the snow with the thing he'd asked for. As he approached, Alexander mused that Caleb was actually the one person he’d never seen slip. He’d handed it over happily, but asked Alex to promise that at some point he’d get the full story as payment. 

Alex was pretty sure he’d enjoy it, Caleb had a good sense for stories, it was something they’d bonded over.

He tucked it away, nodded to Ben who nodded back, wrapped the blanket tighter and continued his work.

He had a lot to do before tomorrow came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *To conga line music* -> 'Alex is in denial, Alex is freaking out, Alex needs a big hug.'  
> Who doesn't love watching people slip on ice? Oh yeah, also whump.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	9. George, January-February, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, update, update!!!  
> I don't own.  
> I hope you enjoy.

George hated paperwork. He had aides, competent ones, and yet so much of it still ended up on his desk. You'd think a January would be calm, but despite the winter hold on the war, they had more paperwork than ever. At least they had been permitted to stay in the home of a man, a building with rooms and walls. The camp was mostly a camp, but their desks and paperwork were away from the bitterest cold.

Thank God for Alexander, who sorted through a lot of his work, and in fact, answered most of the messages for him.

His son was good at what he did.

Fortunately, all the letters that ended up on his desk bar a few went through Alexander or Tallmadge.

Both men were at their respective desks with mountains of paperwork that made his seem like a molehill. Ben was working steadily through it, but Alexander... well, Alexander was still working, but at an incredibly slow pace. It looked like he was reading and re-reading each paragraph three times before doing anything, and he kept tapping his quill rather than writing anything. 

Could it have been his wound? He’d suffered it over three months prior and was telling everyone he was finally recovered. Insisting, despite the collapses and cramps he was slowly getting a handle on, that he was better. He knew Alexander would lie to go back to work earlier, but he’d thought Alexander was telling the truth about this.

Then again, he knew how the cold had been playing on the healed wound, and the day was colder than most even with a fire in the hearth. He'd seen Alexander rub his shoulder maybe 12 times in the past half hour, face creased with discomfort, perhaps he was not as healed as he wanted to be. He knew the recovery from his injury had been a long one, with a long path yet to go, and asked God to let it heal with the warmth of spring if not before.

He picked up the next letter, sliding it open without really looking at the writing on the front. 

It was old paper, older than he’d expected from a letter, but if it was relevant, he didn’t care how old it was.

_ September 12 _ _ th _ _ 1759, The Bridge Town, Barbados. _

That date. He knew that date. That cursed date, that cursed place. Why was this in his letters? Who dared put this on his desk!

He looked up. Benjamin was hard at work, seemingly unaware of what was happening. Alexander was not looking up from the letter he was to be writing, focused intently on that. __

He went back to the letter.

_ I am an impulsive man, but for the first time in a long time, a bitterly happy one. It is regretful that I may only be able to take pleasure in the suffering of others, but how glorious it is. _

_ And more so, I have found a way to please my wife. She wanted another child, and I have found her one. _

This was not a letter, it wasn’t addressed to anyone, it read like an old diary entry. __

_ Right out of the bed of a rich man's home. The rich man I wrote about in my last entry, the one whose wife bought a scarf off of me. _

_ From  _ _ The _ _ Crawford House,  _ _ currently _ _ occupied by a rich family whose patriarch is a rich and ranking soldier stationed here, my crew and I have stolen: _

The Crawford House, the place he’d lived for three years. 

This was not just a diary entry from the night Alexander was taken, it was a diary entry of the night Alexander was taken. How had this made it to his desk?

_ Plates x12 _

_ Candelabras x5 _

_ Vases x4 _

_ Ceremonial Sword x1 _

_ Pistol x1 _

_ And child x1.  _

One child. His child. His Alexander.

_ He is, I think, about 2 years of age. Not only will Rachel love him, and our inability to conceive is cured by adopting the brat, but a rich couple lose the one thing more important to them than their money. _

_ Of course, Rachel may wonder where I have acquired a child from, but many children are abandoned by poor parents who cannot afford them, or orphaned by plagues and piracy. I shall tell her I found the boy abandoned on the streets by the edge of the city, alone and scared. _

This was the story Alexander had told them, the lie he’d told them. The lie he’d been raised on. Alexander had so often preached his mother as a saint, and this echoed that. A saint trapped in a marriage to a demon.

_ He knows his name, and although he cries for his mama and papa, he can hardly speak well enough to tell anyone he was stolen, and by the time he is old enough to do so, he will have surely forgotten it because that is the fickle brilliance of a child's mind. _

_ I hope those smug rich bastards suffer their loss. _

_ James Hamilton. _

Oh god. He let the letter drop to the desk.

James Hamilton. The man Alexander called father. The man his Alexander had been forced to call father.

Suffered his loss they had.

Wait...

Ben could not have found this; he knew the truth but there was no way he could get it. And even if he had, he would have come directly to him, not left it for him to read.

Alexander had sent him this.

Alexander knew.

Why was he sending him the note...  unless...?

“Hamilton, with me.”

“Yes Sir.”

Before they could leave, Ben stood up, said, “I’ll leave you two to talk.” and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He wondered what Ben knew or whether he just didn’t want his friend outside in the cold, but it didn’t matter. Alexander mattered. His son mattered.

“Alexander, this is...”

“A diary entry from the man who raised me, also the man who stole me.”

“How... how long have you known?”

“That I was kidnapped or that I was your son.”

“Both, either, I just...”

“I found the diary when I was 16.”

Alexander refused to look at him. George wished he would, wished he could see his son’s eyes and work out what was happening in his head.

“And that you were... my son.”

His voice broke on the last two words. He'd dreamed he’d be able to have this conversation, but it had always been a dream. These weren’t words he’d ever thought he’d utter, so why was the conversation so sombre? Why wasn’t it jubilant?

“When I was shot... I... You... you don’t seem that surprised?”

“I overheard you talking with the others, on your birthday, or... the day you call your birthday. I put the pieces together.”

“You never said anything.”

“Neither did you.”

“I gave you that.”

“But nothing before today. You've known since you were shot, you’ve known for three months.” 

“I... I didn’t know how, so I sent for the diary. It only arrived a few days ago. But... you knew for over a month longer than I, sir.”

“You said you didn’t want anything to do with your birth parents, I wanted to respect that, even if it meant... even...”

‘I understand... and thank you. And I... I knew I'd been taken, but not that you were my... my father. It was only after I was shot that I remembered either of your faces clearly. I mean, I always saw them in the dream, saw you, but it was always impossible to remember when I woke up before.”

“I... is that what changed? You said you wanted nothing to do with myself or Martha, but now you... you’ve come to me, you’ve given me this proof. You've...”

Given me hope.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I always... I'm so sorry.”

Alex slumped against the desk and George froze. Was he supposed to support his son now that he knew? He wanted to, but would Alexander be alright with it?

He made his decision and placed himself at Alex’s side, thanking God when Alex curled into him. 

“You don’t have to apologise.”

“I have no idea what to do.”

“We’ll work it out, son. We'll work it out.”

Whatever damn had been holding Alexanders  words back , broke.

“I was... life was hard. It was always hard, and there was always something else. It was easier to believe I'd been abandoned, or that you were dead, or wouldn’t want me, or any of the negative outcomes. To think otherwise... I didn’t have the time, or... or the strength, I guess. I couldn’t survive getting my hopes up only to be wrong. I never had the time either, at least, that’s what I told myself. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. For never looking. I was sure you’d given up.”

“I never gave up, Alex, not for a day. Even when they reassigned me, even when they told me you were surely dead, I never stopped  believing you  were out there.”

“Why? It was 19 years. How did you hold on?”

“Alexander, the day you were taken, I... that morning, I promised you I would never fail you, that you’d always be safe. That same day someone stole you from your bed from under my nose. I failed you and your mother.”

“When I first started having the dreams, it almost completely blurred and I couldn’t understand any of it. But I could hear someone calling my name. You.”

“I searched for days, sun up and down and up again but I could not find you. I am so sorry I never found you.”

“He was a criminal long before he took me. He wasn’t captured once as far as I know. You couldn’t have changed that.”

“Perhaps not. I... “

“Sir, his very profession was avoiding the law and he was confident enough in his skills to log his actions on paper. There was nothing you could have done.”

“You said you sent for the diary? Why?”

“Yeah, I did, I... after I read it, the first time, I realised Jamie could never see it. I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep the books or burn them or give them to the authorities. Except, I couldn’t go to the authorities because they were cruel and corrupt and would have held Jamie and I to blame for Sr’s crime...”

“But you were the victim.”

“They would not have cared. We were poor and  convenient scapegoats. That was just how it worked; the child bore the sin of the parent. I ended up giving the books to someone I trusted, this one, at least. This page; I honestly don’t know why I kept it, I’d memorised it, but I did. When I realised... I couldn’t work out what I was supposed to say, so I sent for this. Figured it said everything.”

“Alexander, I'm glad you did. I'm glad you told me. If you give me the chance, I'd like to fill the role of father.”

Oh please, Alex, let me into your life.

“Sir? How so?”

“Alexander, you’re my son. My legitimate son. I want to be able to call you that, want people to know you’re mine, and protect you as a father should. And as my son, you’re my heir, and after the war I’d love nothing more than for you to join me in Virginia.”

“I... you want me there. I wasn’t raised to... I don’t know... sir. I don’t know any of the things I'd need to know for that.”

“You’re a fast learner.”

“You know I'd release and legally hire every slave on the property. Give them freedom all men and women deserve.”

“They’re already free. I don’t own any slaves., I freed them all years ago. The people who remain on my property are labourers, but they’re paid. I'm campaigning for the abolition of all slavery as  well; it just might take longer to change opinions.”

“Since when were you an  abolitionist , sir?”

“Since losing you. I'm not proud of it, but after you were taken someone said you were likely working as a slave god knows where and suddenly all I could think of was how those slaves might have been children taken from your parents the way you were taken from me and Alexander I couldn't... I couldn’t stand it. I freed them all, told them they could leave if they liked, find work or lives elsewhere, but a lot of them stayed, if only because I promised pay and shelter and access to a doctor. Billy Lee and his brother were two who did.”

“Oh.”

“So, how much of this did Ben know?”

“ Ehhh , quite a bit. I  kinda freaked out and told him everything after I woke up. I needed his advice. I wanted John’s advice, but he was away. He knew my plan.”

“Since when do you ask for advice?”

“Funny. I... I have no idea what to do, Sir. Or where we go from here?”

“I... I think our next step is to tell Martha.”

.

.

.

George hated how overwhelmed Alexander looked. Hated how much his son seemed to struggle with everything, not just physically but with everything else.

Martha had been so relieved, so welcoming, but he could see how for someone who hadn’t had a family since he was a child, and who’d spent 14 years of his life believing his birth family had hated him, would be completely thrown by the situation.

That and Alexander seemed to be struggling on what he was supposed to call them now. As much as George wanted Alexander to start calling them mother and father or any variation of, he understood why Alexander  struggled with it.

Still, there was something noticeable in the shift in their relationship over the weeks that followed. He wasn’t sure what it was, whether they seemed further apart or closer, but Lafayette had commented on it, asking if everything was ok between them.

He'd assured his friend everything was fine, but he wondered how or whether he was supposed to say anything.

Would telling the world his son was safe and alive and back at his side put him in danger? Almost  definitely .

They were at war. And their enemies seemed to have very few qualms as to how they’d treat people or the lengths they would go to. If they found out about Alex, would they send kidnappers,  assassins ?

Without a doubt.

It would put a target on his back the size of New York.

The British would adore a chance to kill Alexander Washington and there was so high a chance of spies in the camp and on the Continental’s side, that telling even his own people could be a death sentence to his son.

The most difficult thing about bringing his son home to his side, was that Alexander was an adult. There were so many things Alexander already knew that he’d learnt through life that George hadn’t been able to teach him, and so much that he had missed. 

He'd dreamed of being able to hold his child close, but Alexander was far past the age or mindset of being held close. Aside from the day they’d reunited, he flinched away anyone who tried. The only time before that had been as his son screamed into his shoulder as the doctor searched out the missing piece of bone, something that had killed him to listen to as he held the boy steady, aided by both Lafayette and Laurens.

He wanted to get to know his son, make up for all the years he’d missed, but Alexander didn’t want to talk about it. Ever. At all. 

Not to him, anyway.

The guilt welled up every time Alexander closed off.

His failure to save his son had given him a life of pain, one that Alexader refused to tell him about because he didn’t want him to bare the guilt, but it didn’t have the desired effect, it just made him feel worse, because it had to have been awful if Alexander refused to talk about it.

So, much of their relationship stayed the same. Their professional relationship barely changed, and truthfully, George didn’t quite know how to approach it. Martha suggested inviting Alexander to dinners, and, as always, she was  right.

Martha was managing far better.

He knew she bristled a little at Alexander calling her ma’am or Mrs Washington rather than mom or mother or ma or any variation of, because this was her son, but she never said a word to Alexander about it, never complained. Understood he was uncomfortable and needed time. She was as graceful in this situation as she was in every.

With her, Alexander had said more, perhaps because she didn’t hold the guilt of failure that George did. She wasn’t the one who’d failed Alexander.

James Hamilton Sr had nearly killed her to take Alexander, and then hadn’t bothered to give him the time of day. 

That was something else that annoyed him.

Alexander insisted on apologising for the man's actions. Insisted on apologising for the injury she had received at his hand, in the tone of a boy who’d spent his whole life apologising for his father's actions. For that  bastards' actions.

Martha, in asking about Alexanders life and with a strength he didn’t have, asked about the woman he’d called mother. About Rachel Fawcette Hamilton. She wanted stories about her, about their relationship and the rest of the family that had raised him.

“He had a good woman raising him, George,” she’d said, “she taught him morals and made sure he got an education and kept fighting instead of giving in. If I couldn’t be there for him, I'm glad she was, even if he lost her too soon.”

“He always called her a Saint. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks of her. She had no idea of what her husband had done, just raised the child she thought needed raising.”

“We have him back George. Not how we might have once thought, but he’s here and he's willing to call himself ours and things will be ok.”

“When the war is over, he can come home to the estate. And he wants to go into politics when the war is over, it’s likely I will be asked into politics for my role in the war, I can keep him by my side, keep an eye on him.”

“We have our Alexander back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... its out there now.  
> Also, I know the Real George Washington owned slaves, but I feel like losing a child to kidnapping when slavery was such a prevalent reason for children to be taken would change someones attitiudes.  
> I hope you enjoyed that, thanks for reading.  
> Please R+R.  
> Next chapter in a few days.


	10. Alexander, January-February, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> I don't own.   
> Hope you enjoy.

“So, you told him?”

A few hours prior, Ben had left the house so Alexander and Washington could talk.

Now Alexander was having a panic in his tent. He  would have panicked to John he would have liked to panic to John, but John, John was away, again, and Ben was the only other person in the camp who he’d told the truth too.

He had excused himself from the Generals house, or at least the one he was borrowing, in need of air and a minute to process what had just happened and then run to Ben’s tent to freak out.

His fear was seizing up his chest, and the air felt as though it was freezing to the inside of his throat. On top of the sharp cold ache below his shoulder, his hands shook. He was panicking.

“Yes, oh God, I wasn’t ready for this. I should have waited for John to get back? Why didn’t I wait?”

“So...”

“He wants me to become his son again, properly.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Until a few hours ago, I would define myself as being an orphan who’s only achievement was clearing his drunkard fathers' debts. Now I'm going to be heir to land, and son of one of the most powerful men in the country. I can’t... I'm not... oh God...”

His arm was beginning to shake and seize, it was going to cramp up, he could feel it coming.

“Alexander, relax.”

“How! I’ve changed everything and I wasn’t ready and I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. I know you can. If for no reason more than you’re an adaptive and flexible man. You've survived Hell, you can survive a few fancy parties.”

“I don’t know how to dance. I don’t know how to be high society. I used to fight for food, literally, there were underground fight clubs and I was small so no-one would expect me to win so the odds were on my side and now I’m supposed to be elegant and... and Ben I have no idea what to do. I don’t know how to be a Washington.”

“Alex, you know maths, better than most. You have an incredible mind for finances and politics and law and written word, don’t doubt for a second that you can handle being a Washington. You can more than manage high society, as long as you keep your tongue in  check when you need to. Maybe you need some refining, but you can absolutely manage it.”

“What if I fail? What if I humiliate him?”

“What do you want me to say, Alex? I'm a Reverend’s son, and a schoolteacher, I’ve never been to a fancy party in my life, I don’t know what upper-class people think. I can tell you I'm sure I've embarrassed my father a few times and I know I've pushed him past the point of anger before. But he’s your father, he’ll forgive you, and I'm sure he’s humiliated himself before. Right now, you have to stop and breathe.”

The pain in his arm was becoming blinding, but with Ben’s help, he rode through it. He didn’t bother to get up from where he’d sunk to the floor, just massaged his arm and whispered,

“It’s awful, Ben, the way he looks at me now. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“The way he looks at you, Alex... you weren’t expecting pride or affection?”

“Guilt, self-shame. He blames himself for my kidnapping and I can’t convince him not to. Like his paternal devotion could best 16 years of unhindered criminal experience. And on that  point, you can never tell him about the fighting thing by the way, I can’t give him any more guilt.”

“ Of course he blames himself, you’re his son. But he will forgive himself in time, it’ll be fine, trust me.”

“He wants me to talk with Martha, Mrs Washington. My mother! How... how can I do it? How can I do any of this.”

“The same way you do everything, one day at a time.”

.

.

.

Alexander was struggling.

He was trying so hard, but he was almost certain he was just messing everything up. 

He'd met with Martha Washington that evening, after leaving Ben’s tent.

It had been more emotional than he’d been able to manage, and somehow instead of laughing, or crying, and feeling it his soul, he’d gone numb. It had felt like he was under the water, like the winds of the hurricane were back around him and the pressure too much to manage. She cried, pulled him close, like she never wanted to let go. 

The  General cried too, but Alex couldn’t get tears. He hadn’t cried in years; he wasn’t sure he could.

Still, he ended up falling asleep against them. He hadn’t slept in days, the stress of the situation building like water behind a damn, and on telling the General, it had burst. Part of him wanted to leave, but John was still gone, and all that was left for him out there was an empty tent in a cold winter. Here, he had family, strange as it was. And he was going to have to get used to it.

John had returned the next morning, listened to every word he said, held him close and congratulated him. In the privacy of their tent, he had cupped Alexanders face and told him how proud he was, before pressing their lips together. Alex melted into it, into the comfort it provided.

He confided to John that night his every fear of messing up, or shaming them or disappointing them. 

But as much as he feared messing up in front of the Gen... his father, he found himself enjoying his time with Mrs Washington, his mother.

She was kind and caring and curious and in so many ways reminded him of his Maman.

It was terrifying.

It was in conversations with Mrs Washington that he realised how much he missed her.

He'd lost her 9 years ago. Had it really been 9 years?

Weirder, Mrs Washington wanted to talk about her. Wanted to know about the life he’d lead, about the woman who’d saved him.

He'd never really talked to anyone about his Maman, only Jamie and Pete and John. He didn’t know where to start, and worse, he feared what she’d say, if not about his Maman, then about the life he’d lived, the stress and strain and crime and terror.

She couldn’t know.

And yet.

And yet it was so easy to talk to her. There was something so disarming, so comforting, about talking to her, that he found himself telling her stories without realising.

He's told John one evening after meeting with her, curled into the man's side under the blankets, ‘for warmth’ and he’d smiled, that smile that made him weak, and told him that’s what mothers are  supposed to do.

You're supposed to be able to go to them for anything, tell them anything.

It had blindsided him.

Completely and utterly.

.

.

.

“You never tell George any of these stories. Why?”

Alexander rubbed his shoulder and looked away.

“I... truthfully, he always looks like he feels so guilty. How can I add to that?”

“But you aren’t just scared of telling George and I things because you think we feel guilty, are you?”

“Please...”

“You’re ashamed. Oh Alex, nothing you say could drive us from you.”

“But you don’t know, you don’t know the life I've lived, the things I've seen and  fought through. How can you say that you don’t  care? ”

“You’re my son. I lost you for 19 years, I will not lose you again.”

“I...”

“Please, let me  prove it to you. Trust me... with one story, no-one outside this room will ever need know.”

It's a paradox, he thought. If he held his tongue, he’d never know, never get proof. If he told you, he’d be proven right and lose her again.

“Please, Alex.”

“I... ok, we couldn’t always afford food. When we struggled, when work wasn’t enough there was another option. I... if stale bread cost 3 shillings, I could buy stale bread. Or... I could use the shillings to enter into a fighting ring.”

She gasped, hand to her mouth, and he faltered, but she ushered him to continue.

“If I lost, I lost my shillings and we went hungry, but if I won, it’d come out of it with a pound or two. That was enough for good bread, and stew. I was small, unassuming, my odds were always good for me. It's where I really learnt to fight. When Jamie got sick, when I was 13, when Pete died when I was 15, it was the only way to stay on top of the debts and bills and shopping.”

To his shock, she pulled him into a tight hug.

“ Oh honey, I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I’m so sorry. You should never have been in that situation, no-one should be. I will never judge you for surviving.”

“I fought people for food. How am I supposed to be... I... how... how are you not ashamed of what I am?”

“Alexander, you have fought your way through life, fought your way back to me, to us. You don’t shame me; you don’t disappoint me.”

“And yet you bristle every time I call you Mrs Washington or Ma’am.”

“I do, and I'm sorry. It isn’t fair of me to expect you to call me mother, or anything of the sort. You've lived your whole life without me, I do understand, Alex. But in a battle of emotion and logic, it can be hard to put the truth over your own opinions.”

“I... it’s not fair of me either. You... you lost... me. And now you have your son back, but I'm not what you lost.”

“No, but I knew that. I know that. And if you’re comfortable, I'd be happy if you could drop the informalities and at least call me Martha.”

“I... are you sure?”

“Only if you’re  comfortable .”

“I am... Mrs Martha.”

She pulled a face and he grinned.

His birth mother, she loved him, wanted him.

He'd never have believed it.

.

.

.

“May I show you something, Alexander?”

“I... yes, sir.”

The General riffled through some papers, pulling out a few.

They were sketches.

The General pulled up the first one, and Alexander recognised the General in it immediately, and the babe in his arms, he guessed was himself.

“My brother drew this, the day you were born. I didn’t even realise he was drawing. You came early, by almost a month, and Martha was exhausted, so they put you in my arms and honestly, I was terrified. You were so small. I just sat there and waited for them to say if Martha was going to be alright or not and all I could focus on was you.”

“I was born early?”

“Yes, we weren’t expecting you until the end of February, but by mid-January you weren’t waiting any longer it seemed. We were terrified something was wrong, that you were too early, that you’d be too weak. You were so tiny; I was so scared I'd lose you both. But you were both strong, you and Martha both pulled through. The midwives said something was wrong, as soon as you were born Martha passed out, the Midwives swaddled you, put you in my arms and forced me from the room so they could treat her. I sat there for hours with you in my arms before they came to tell me she was going to be fine. Lawrence drew me while I was waiting.”

“January? I had wondered. What's... what's this one?”

The General moved it to the top of the pile, and Alex could more clearly see the drawing. It was himself, at somewhere between 1-2 years old, asleep in Martha’s arms, who was relaxed into the General’s arms. He was wrapped in the General’s coat, which he knew had been red but  envisioned as blue in his mind.

“We have a painting similar to this, with the three of us, one with colour. It was just after you turned two, you were on my lap, Martha was in the chair next to mine, you hated sitting for it, even the basic sketch they wanted to do. You never sat still, period. From the minute you could crawl we’d put you down and a second later you were gone, and once you were  walking, I used to carry you on my shoulders to keep you from running off.”

“Thats weird, Jamie said I didn’t run of that much, that I always seemed timid, though I guess it would make sense. Apparently, I never stopped talking once I started.”

“No, no, once you started talking that was it, never a  moments quiet. Even before you talked, you just babbled or screamed or laughed, just to fill the quiet. You crawled off once, you were about 1 and a half, and I found you having a conversation with a parrot.”

Alex snorted. He didn’t mean to, but he could picture it so clearly.

“Something similar happened when I was, seven, I think. I'd just finished work and I was waiting for Jamie because Maman was working late but he hadn’t finished his shift and there was a parrot that the sailors had taught to swear. We joked he worked as security, because this bird, it liked people or it didn’t' would tell Senior to Eff off every time he went close, but was always told Jamie and I jokes.”

“I am in no way surprised. You could start a conversation with anyone.”

He shuffled through to third sketch, and Alex couldn’t help but laugh. It was him again, covered in what he guessed was ink, with a quill in his hand and the empty pot on the floor next to him. The General was in it too, standing over him from where he was lying on the floor, looking half-way between annoyed and amused.  It was a very detailed sketch for the scene it was drawing, he was surprised someone would draw something so... insignificant. 

“My brother drew that one too, a quick sketch at the time, but then drew up a far more detailed one and gave it to me just before he... before his passing. He said it had made him laugh and was worth immortalising in art. After we lost you, I was so glad he’d made so many of these sketches, and so glad we’d continued drawing them. We had some other friends who did some other ones, you can see the difference in some of these, the ones he drew and the ones other people drew.”

“I’m sorry, about your brother. Do you have any of him?”

He shuffled them again and found one of a man Alexander assumed to be his uncle. He was in the man’s arms, once again a tiny babe, more blankets that child. The sketch didn’t show the man’s illness, only the joy in his face that Alex hoped was for meeting his nephew than maybe some joke he was told or something else. 

“He was so happy to meet you, he knew he wasn’t going to have children of his own, so he spoilt you rotten. God, he  adored you.”

Alex shuffled through a few more of the pictures he’d been handed.

“I had really long hair. Maman said my hair was short when I came to them.”

“It was long when you were taken, we used to tie it in a lose ponytail. You had a few ribbons, light blue, dark blue, gold, black, red, green. You picked dark blue or gold every time. Unless I was in uniform, then it had to be red. You'd throw a fit over any other colour.”

“They’re good colours, except maybe the red. I... do you bring these with you, from camp to camp?”

“I had another copy made that I left back at Mt. Vernon, but yes. It was something to remind me of you, to remind me of why I had to keep fighting. A better world for my son, whether you were with me or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got some cute HappySad moments.  
> Ben is a good friend, Martha is a good mother, George is a scared father, Alexander is the usual mess.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	11. Alexander, February-March, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

“I hate it Martha, he... he was scared to tell me he was my son, scared to talk to me. Scared of what I might do. I'm his father, I'm the very last person he should be afraid of, I'm supposed to be the person he can come to no matter what.”

“George, love, he was raised by his kidnapper. I have no doubt Mrs Hamilton tried to shield him, but that man... there’s no way he was safe around him. It makes sense that he’d fear.”

“But I... it breaks my heart Martha. He flinches like I'm going to hit him; he fears me. My son fears me.”

Alex pressed his head against the wall and held back tears. His father was crying, because of him, because he couldn’t get over what Senior had done to him. 

He really was a failure of a son.

He left early that night, putting out the candle at his desk and retreating to the safety of his tent. His missives could wait until morning.

He was greeted with a hug and a kiss.

“I made him cry John. The great General Washington, crying. Have you ever seen him cry?”

“Yes. I went to see him in October, to make sure he was alright and give him an update on you. He’d nearly lost his wife and you were on the brink of death, and he’d been crying.”

“Oh great. I've done it twice.”

“Lex, love, parents cry over their children. It's what they’re supposed to do.”

He wanted to argue, but suddenly his mind swept him away to a warm sickly night on Nevis in the grips of a fever.

_ “ _ _ Mon petit ange _ _. I am so sorry. I am so sorry this sickness will take you before you could achieve what you were put on this earth to do. This sickness I brought into this home, I'm sorry mon petit. I cannot bare that you may die in my arms, my Alexander, but I fear we cannot last. I wish I had the food to give you strength, the doctors and medicine to help you fight, but I have nothing to give. You must gain strength from inside you, little one, or you will not last the night. You must last the night. You must survive. The world needs you yet, mon petit plume.” _

His Maman, some of her last words to him had been in tears. She'd cried, mourning not her own passing, but her son’s, both of which she’d believed to be inevitable.

It did not alleviate the guilt.

.

.

.

“Tell me about her, please.”

“About... my Maman?”

“She took you in, raised you, protected you. I... I'm forever indebted to her.”

“She... she never let her situation crush her, I guess. Her husband was a monster, but she was always kind, always willing to help others. She never needed to keep me, especially after Senior left, and yet, she did. She said I was her son no matter what, blood or not, and that she was never going to kick me out. I... I didn’t understand. Couldn't understand. Not then. She worked so hard, always had a job, as long as I can remember. Cleaned the houses of the rich people on the island, clerked in our landlord’s shop. Made sure there was always food on the table and a roof over our heads, even if she didn’t eat for days, she’d make sure we had something.”

“She sounds amazing.”

“She was. She... there was a tutor, for one of the rich families, and he made her a deal. If she cleaned for him, instead of money, he’d teach me and James. English, French, mathematics, history, science. It meant she was out in the evenings, that Jamie and I had to take care of ourselves, but I'd never be here if she hadn’t. She worked herself to death to keep us alive after Senior left. I remember, she just got thinner and thinner, more and more tired. No matter how many hours Jamie or I worked. When the plague came, she just wasn’t strong enough to fight it.”

For the first time in years, for the first time since he was 10, he was crying.

“Oh Alex.”

“I’m sorry.” he wiped his eyes roughly, “I... I don’t usually cry.”

“How old were you?”

“I was 12. We both got sick... they didn’t think either of us would make it, but she just kept telling me I had to live. I had to keep fighting. One day I woke up... she was... I was in her arms.”

Her arms wrapped around him, he let himself be pulled against her, sobbed into her chest.

“Oh, little one I'm so sorry.”

“I don’t know why I'm crying. I never cry. I haven't cried since I was 10. I never had time.”

“You lost someone you love, it’s ok to cry, darling. Its normal. It's good for you.”

She cupped his head and held him close.

“Just cry Alex, let it out, mourn. I've got you.”

For the first time since he was a child, he let go of his tightly controlled emotions and sobbed.

.

.

.

The winter turned to spring too quickly as they  adapted to the changes in their lives.

Alex spent more dinners with them, got more comfortable calling Mrs Washington Martha, even if he still referred to his father as General or Sir more than anything.

He was getting used to having parents.

He was getting used to having people who cared for him.

Somehow.

John was thoroughly amused by it all. But to his credit he stood by him the whole time, no matter how overemotional he got. No matter how angry or panicked he got, no matter how loud he got. John was a godsend.

Truthfully, Alex was most amazed by how quickly they managed to get a lawyer into their camp to re-instate Alexander into the family. By the end of the month, which was less than a week away, it would all be official.

Technically, He’d be Alexander Hamilton till the war was over, but he would be Alexander Washington by law once again. Alexander Washington who’s 22 nd birthday had been and gone because he’d been born in January. Two names, two birthdays, two very different families, and now it was time to decide who he was.

It was a terrifying notion.

But he was ready for it.

More ready for that than he was for the war to resume or for Martha to leave the camp again, headed for safer grounds. The General had suggested he join her, but he was not leaving his post, leaving his friends, the war.

Life continued on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, but hey...  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R, it means the world.


	12. George, March, 1779

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> I hope you enjoy.

“...and you're sure he’s actually your son.”

“Yes.  Yes, I am certain. Without doubt.”

“None?”

“Can you add Alexander back into his position in my family or do I need to find a new  lawyer ?”

“Yes, Mr Washington, I can add him back, and change his name back. If he is your son...”

“He is!”

“...then there is very little that needs legal assistance, given that by law his name had never actually changed. The issue will be what he has done and time he has worked under the name Hamilton, given that it technically wasn’t a real name.”

“We can keep on top of that though, right?”

“Of course.”

George knew he was being short tempered with the man, that he was just doing his job and trying to protect George’s family from fraud, but it was infuriating. Alex was his son damnit, these questions were a  waste of his time.

That and Martha was departing camp at the end of that week. He wouldn’t see her for months, wouldn’t be able to hold her close.

Would be with his son without his wife for the first time since they found out.

And of course, the war would resume and Alexander would be in danger again. 

That was, if he could survive the legalities and the paperwork involved, God, he hated paperwork.

How could it be this difficult? How could there be this much to do? It wasn’t like he was adopting someone, no, he was just asking for his child to be recognised as his.

“You’ll need to sign all of these, your wife will need to sign some too, and you’ll need witnesses.”

“How many? We're trying to keep this quiet until after the war, for Alexanders safety.”

“Indeed. Only three or four. Am I to assume that he will remain as Hamilton until the end of the war?”

“Yes, it’s the safest option.”

“That might make a few things more complicated, and it’ll be more paperwork later on, but we can work with it. I'd still  recommend he puts, maybe, Hamilton Washington on his official file for now, and only uses Hamilton.”

“I’ll talk to him about it. And make sure we have witnesses.”

“Good. I'll be back tomorrow then? We can sign all the relevant forms then.”

“Thank you.”

The lawyer gathered his paperwork and left, closing the door behind him. He needed to find people he trusted to tell about this tonight.

Some would use that as motivation to get up. George slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.

There was a knock at the door, and a welcome voice asked, “Sir?”

“Come in Alex.”

“You look stressed.”

“Do I?”

“Johnson had a lot of paperwork?”

“You’d be amazed.”

“I studied law, so maybe not. I have the most recent scouting reports, some of them look pretty promising, although the accuracy of scouts varies.”

“That is good news. What's the gist of the reports?”

“Not so good news. It looks like winters  officially over, they’re beginning to mobilise all across the front, garrisons are restocking, training and drills are increasing, there are more patrols being spotted.”

“Any large build-ups of troops? Any sign of where their assault will be?”

“Nothing yet. I think Ben is working on that though, Caleb rode out this morning.”

“And Congress?”

“A group of senators have written claiming they’re doing their best after my last letter, but money will be  tight for now.”

Alex ran a hand over his face and hair and shoulder and dropped the letters on his desk. He moved them to the side and motioned for Alexander to sit. His son dropped into the chair.

“Good. Johnson said we need witnesses for some of the legal papers.”

“Yeah, I'd been thinking about that. I'd assume Ben Tallmadge. He knows everything, John too.”

“John Laurens? Yes. That’s two, but we’ll need two more. I’m not sure who to ask.”

“Lafayette? He's a friend to us both, he’s a good man. I trust him.”

“Maybe. I was thinking Arnold.”

“Benedict Arnold?”

“He’s an old friend.”

“Then that’s four?”

“ Indeed it is.”

“Somethings worrying you, sir.”

“Johnson thinks that from signing these papers, you should at least be Alexander Hamilton Washington or Alexander Washington Hamilton on your legal forms.”

“He does?”

“He thinks you should stick to Hamilton as... the name you respond to and sign letters with, but that on your official file, it should have Washington on it, to reduce  complications after the war.”

“You disagree?”

This was where the issue was. Georges main issue was the danger Alexander would be in, but Alexander had this dangerous recklessness when it came to his own safety. It terrified him how blasé his son could be about his own life, as perfectly exampled a few months either when Alexander had taken a shot for his wife, without even knowing she was his mother.

“Alexander, our enemies would love nothing more than to have leverage against me, and Alexander, my son would be the best bait they could dream of.”

“I can defend myself, and I almost never even leave the camp.”

“And if they have people in the camp? Alexander it would be no issue to them at all to slip a poison into your cup or to get someone into this camp, they’ve done it before, and then I'd lose you again and it would be my name that had brought it upon you.”

Alex dropped his gaze, and George wished he could have taken pause and phrased it less harshly.

“Alexander, if they had you, I do not know what I would do. The idea terrifies me.”

“I’m sor...”

“Don’t apologise. Don't ever apologise. Getting you back is the greatest thing that has happened to me. It is not your fault that we are at war, or that our enemies would want Alexander Washington more than anything else.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a burden you need.”

If he ever met James Hamilton Sr, he would kill the man slowly. Even without the kidnapping, the doubts Alexander held about himself, the internalised certainties that he was a burden and a problem to the people around him, they chilled George deep into his bones.

He stood quickly, Alexander standing automatically with an extensive mix of emotions flashing across his face (panic, God curse the man who put that into his son’s eyes, and George pulled him into a hug, resting his chin on the top of Alex’s head, cupping it from behind.

“You do not burden me. You do not ever burden me. You will never burden me. The path may be hard, but you are no burden. You are my son.”

His son let his tension drop from his body and relaxed into the comfort being offered, returning the  embrace . Alexander was doing far better than he’d expected at relaxing around them. The last few months had seen Alexander letting his guard down and accepting not only that they cared, but the affection that came with it.

He felt sick when he wondered how long it had been before them since someone had hugged Alexander. Since someone other than Alexander had initiated the hug, that was.

Long enough that his reaction to being hugged was to stiffen up rather than relax into it and accept the support it gave.

Long enough that he expected violence before comfort, assuming he’d done wrong without knowing what he’d done to deserve punishment. George held him tighter.

“We both have a stack of letters to go through.”

“Don’t remind me, Alex.”

.

.

.

George didn’t know why it felt so foreboding as he stood across from Benedict Arnold and the Marquis de Lafayette. Why it felt like some great turning point. He supposed because aside from the lawyer and Billy Lee, there was no-one he had told this to before. Martha had known, Ben had been told everything by Alexander, as had Lt Col. Laurens.

“I need to talk to you both, about a matter of great importance, and great secrecy. What you learn here today cannot be repeated to anyone outside this room.”

“ Of course, sir.”

“We understand.”

Ben Tallmadge, John Laurens and his Alexander were all in the room. It was unbelievable how hard it was to phrase this. 

“We have been concealing a truth, and now I am adding you both to the numbers of the people who know it.”

They exchanged looks but didn’t  interrupt .

“Colonel Hamilton’s real name is not Alexander Hamilton, but Alexander Washington; he is my son. We were separated against our wills when he was a child, but... we’ve been brought back together now.”

Benedict's face was carefully neutral, even if his eyes were shocked, but Lafayette's face was lit up by a grin. They both kept their thoughts to themselves as George explained that they’d managed to reconnect, that there was proof to it all and that Alexander would be reclaiming his place as his heir.

“This is good, yes?"

“Yes. It is.”

“I am glad for you both.” Benedict’s voice was level, though something akin to amazement shone through, “I must admit, the resemblance is striking.”

His friend looked as though he was going to say something more, but stopped himself as Billy Lee entered the room, Martha in tow.

Martha grinned and asked, “You didn’t start without me, did you?”

George managed to keep a straight face, but Benedict did not manage the same as Alex looked away, embarrassed.

“Alexander is our son,” he continued, “but I'm sure you can imagine how our enemies would react if they found out.”

The faces of every single person in the room hardened as the thoughts crossed their minds. 

“Do not worry, sir, no-one will learn this from me,” Lafayette was quick to assure, “Alexandre is my friend, I would not put him in danger.”

He heard Alex huff behind him.

“Lafayette is correct, my friend, we will not put your son in danger. Our enemies will learn nothing from me.”

“There is another thing. Because of the separation, there are a few legal issues, and I am asking you, my friends, to partake as witnesses when we work through it.”

“Of course.”

“Absolutely, but Alexandre, the story you told, you were two when you were separated?”

“I was. I wasn’t adopted, I was taken. By James Hamilton Sr, not his wife. She genuinely believed the story I was raised on from the day I arrived to her grave.”

“Sir,” they were interrupted when a young, panicked looking ensign ran in, “sir the patrol has returned. They've been injured. Badly, sir. They asked to speak with you right away.”

Looked like their meeting was over.

.

.

.

“George. You got him back.”

“I did. I can’t believe it.”

After their interruption that afternoon, George had decided to ask his friend to visit him, if only to fill him in on the facts. He knew Alexander had filled Lafayette in already, but Benedict was his friend, it was his duty to tell him the story in full.

“All this time, God, I'm so happy for you George.”

“He’s such a good person, Benedict, and I can’t even take credit for it. He was raised by his kidnapper, and yet he still became an amazing man.”

“I don’t know, I read somewhere that the first few years are the ones that shape a person.”

“I missed so much of his life.”

“You have time. Tomorrow you’ll sign everything necessary and you have the rest of your lives. He'll make you proud.”

“He already has, more than anyone can imagine.”

“I'm be happy to help with the legalities, getting Alexander back into your family is going to be a good thing, for all three of you. I know how long this haunted you.”

“How could it not? I failed my son.”

“He's never been to Mt. Vernon, has he?”

“No... no he’s never been to his home before. He's never seen his home. It’s the first place I'm taking him after the war. I actually asked if he was willing to go with Martha, the part of me that wants him as far away from the war and danger as possible, but he’s not going anywhere.”

“What would people say if their general was sending his son away from the fighting?”

“I know. I know. I just... I lost him once, I can’t fail him again. I can’t survive losing him a second time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Updates may become more infrequent as we continue but this isn't over yet, not by a long shot.  
> Please R+R.


	13. George, April, 1779

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

George had feared things would become strained between them once Martha left. He'd expected it.

Pressures of war aside, Alexander was just more comfortable around her. It did grate at him, although logically he understood that there was ample reasoning behind it. 

He'd had plans for what sort of a parent he’d wanted to be and the most important one had been that his child would never fear him, never fear going to him with an issue. He'd wanted to be someone his daughter or son could come to for anything. He's  sworn it to Martha as she held his hand to her stomach to feel Alexander kick for the first time.

James Hamilton Sr had robbed him of that.

He'd robbed him of the chance to raise his son, the chance to protect his son, the chance to watch his son grow up.

He'd robbed Alex the chance to have an easy life, a loving father, a safe home.

Not that he’d managed to provide Alex with a safe home. 

“He had to fight for everything,” Martha had told him, the night before she left, “it’ll take him time to adapt. Be patient.”

He got the sinking feeling in his gut she wasn’t being metaphorical when she said fight. The boy had scars on his knuckles and when things tensed, when it looked like a fight could break out, Alex’s whole posture changed. He'd seen it before, but never focused on it. Now, all he could see was the wild look in his eyes and the way his fist clenched. It was something he’d seen in many a man from a poorer background, probably why he’d not picked it up in Alexander before, but it was the tell of a man who’d had to defend themselves with fists alone from too young.

“Alex is a brawler,” he’d overheard Lt Col. Laurens say to a group, “he’s scrappy. He'll kick your ass.”

How different could things have been if he’d managed to rescue Alexander. If he’d found James Hamilton Sr with his son and saved him, had the man arrested and hanged, and never let Alexander out of his sight again. Where he brought him back to Virginia and raised him in safe luxury.

His thoughts drifted to the brother and mother Alex had known and what would have happened to them in this fantasy of his where he kept his son. He liked to imagine she’d find someone better who would help care for her son, that she’d survive her sickness. 

He thanked God once again that his son had fallen into the care of such a kind woman in spite of everything.

He wondered how hard it would be to track down Hamilton Sr when the war was over.

If not for revenge then because he’d worked out that Alexander still feared the man. It hadn’t been said in those words, not to him anyway, but he knew Alexander had at 14 and 15 had run ins with the man while working on the docks, and he knew from things Martha had said that the  man made Alexander freeze when any other man would make him fight. Go silent when he would with any  other man, George included, be vocal.

There was  no one else that Alexander reacted to in that way,  no one else that scared him so.

He was thrown back into a memory of his little Alexander tugging on his britches, looking up at him with sleepy eyes and muttering, “Cold, papa.”

He’d opened the front of his coat and picked up his son, holding him to his chest, the coat wrapped around him to keep him warm and Alex had fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

He remembered being late to a briefing because he’d had to find another coat because Alexander had been using his as a blanket, wrapped tight, little fists holding the material in a death grip. 

Alexander was small enough as an adult that he could still be wrapped in his coat, although perhaps not quite as completely, and blue looked far better than red. He’d draped his coat over his son more than once, usually when he’d found him sleeping at his desk. The same desk he’d moved closer to the hearth and added a blanket to. He didn’t have the heart to wake him, not when he’d just try to start working again.

He worked too hard.

George would not have raised Alexander to be lazy, but he also would not have allowed his son to be so...so  incessant . His work attitude was unhealthy, dangerous. 

And it had been necessary for Alexanders survival for too long.

He looked through the crack in the door to see Alexander at his desk, working as always. With the snow gone, this would be one of their last nights at this location before they packed up and headed off to fight once more.

There were already reports of battles and clashes across much of the frontline, Alexander passed them to him daily.

Would he have had his son here, had things been different? Would he be working so diligently, so close to him? Or would he have given him political position and sent him to Congress to help away from the fighting, or to France to negotiate a treaty.

How different a person would Alexander be?

Through the gap he saw Alexanders eyes widen before the boy stood from his chair, headed for the door.

Alex greeted him with a smile as he handed the note over, but it wasn’t even a smile based on whatever was in the letter, it was just familial. God, it warmed his heart.

Things were not strained between them, as he  had feared, no, they were growing closer still.

The letter was a godsend. His son’s unending work had some power, for his incessant letters had convinced enough men of congress to bend, to find them the money they needed for rations. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but it was something. He could feed his  soldiers; he could protect them from starvation once again.

The winter was truly over.

“Does this mean I need to be more civil in my letters from now on in thanks, or do I keep at it to get more in the future?”

“For  now we take a break, perhaps. We should focus on feeding our men, and working out where the battles are going to be.”

“More victories equates more food. It's unfair. They can’t expect us to fight starving, but they starve us until we win.”

“Alexander...”

“I read the letter, as good news as this is, they’re holding us hostage. We'll end up being killed by our own politicians.”

“We’re are durable, and we have made it through the winter. We can keep going.”

“I think Ben’s got a good idea of where the next battle might be. I can assume you won’t give me men.”

“Someone has to bully Congress.”

He knew Alexander wanted a command, wanted to make a name for himself, and he  knew that being a Washington didn’t change that, because he wanted to be his own man, not live of someone  else's legacy. George understood it, he did, but he was keeping Alexander as far from the battlefield as he could, as often as he could.

“I can fight.”

“Last time I let you fight you were shot, I nearly lost you. And to that point, has the doctor even said yet whether you can go back into battle?”

“It’s been five months.”

“Alexander!”

“No, he hasn’t yet cleared me. Not until the warmer weather, when he can see whether the cramping and seizing was the cold or damage done by the bullet. But I can still...”

“No, you will not be seeing the battles.”

“But...”

“Alexander you have dropped to the floor with pain when your shoulder has gone. You know reasonably enough that would endanger your men should it happen in battle. Your men and you. I know your writing has been mostly unhindered, and that you can write with both hands with ease, but you shoot with your right and I will not allow you to endanger yourself or your men with this.”

“I understand.”

“When you are recovered, when the doctor says you are recovered, then we can talk.”

“Thank you.”

He’d seen the pain in his son’s face when these cramps hit, he couldn’t risk him in battle when they could strike at any time, and that wasn’t because Alex was his son, that would be his rule with any soldier.

If it was permanent, or if it worsened, he’d ask again if Alexander was willing to go to Mt. Vernon.

If he could not fight, would he accept safety? It was  unlikely .

No, his son would be by his side until the war was over.

.

.

.

Benedict returned for Philidelphia once again half way through the month, complaining of the men in his city and the charges levelled against him. It hurt to see his friend so put out by what others were saying, and he feared his advice had not gone down as well as he’d hoped.

A court martial was the best option for him, if he put it to military tribunal, it was far more likely to go in his favour than a  civilian one. 

As with Alexander, he couldn't let people with injuries that limited them into the field, and despite Benedict's protests, his injury did limit him. He assumed his old friend had hoped, again similarly to Alexander, that he’d be fighting fit by the end of winter and ready to jump into the action.

He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do the same.

The war was picking back up again at full pace, battles and skirmishes all along the frontlines.

The Culper Ring provided information as accurately as ever, and from his other sources of information, Benjamin was entirely on top of making sure he knew where he needed to send his men. It was effective to have a man he trusted so much working alongside him. Even  Brewster's brash nature could be forgiven for the results they gave.

Most of the time.

Despite not having Arnold or Alexander in command posts, he was no short of good leadership.

Lafayette proved himself again and again a capable leader and soldier, despite his youth. His men applauded his courage and perseverance, and best of all, he and Alexander maintained their brotherly bond. George didn’t speak French, but Alexander was fluent and had been happy to  translate and make his friend more comfortable by speaking to him in French to reduce the strain of  having to constantly speak in another language.

George was glad to have him on their side.

George was happy. War be damned, he was genuinely happy, and how could he not be? 

He had his son, his son who stood by his side and joined him for dinners and hadn’t rejected him.

His son was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was shorter, I know, but none the less I hope you enjoyed.  
> There will be a short time jump to the next chapter, which should be up soon-ish (within a week).  
> Thank you all for sticking with this so far and hopefully chapters to come and Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, be it once or every chapter, every comment is read and appreciated.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	14. Benjamin, October, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> There is a small time skip between the last chapter and this one, as in all of summer, just so you know. The chapter titles do have months on them as well.  
> Please enjoy.

The General slammed his fist into the table. He was furious, Ben knew, and truthfully, he was amazed the General hadn’t lunged at the man there and then.

Washington threw his arm out, sending books and papers and quills flying.

“I hate it. He is my son and they dare insinuate that? Say that?”

“They don’t know he’s your son, sir.”

“That does not abate my disgust or anger. Are they so blind that they cannot see my affections are paternal?”

Benjamin sighed, “These aren’t exactly new allegations, sir. People have said it before, about Alexander, about Laf, about me.  Difference is, usually people aren’t so bold to say it to your face.”

“It makes me sick. It makes me physically sick.”

Ben understood why the General was so angry. Someone had said to his face that Alexander was only in his position because he’d slept his way there. 

In fact, he’d gone so far as to yell that it wasn’t fair for him to have his rank and position when he was nothing but ‘a common worthless little whore’.

‘Washington's personal stress reliever,’ he’d called him, “nothing but a pliant body to use as he saw fit.”

Ben was glad the man was in the stocks, out in the snow, and if he wasn’t keeping the General from going and beating the man, he would have gone and done so himself. 

The very idea that the General would cheat on his wife was ludicrous, that he’d cheat with a young man, they were awful and honourless.

But that he was sleeping with Alex...

Forcing Alex to sleep with him...

The implications...

Everyone who’d seen, in the know or not, was fuming.

He'd heard three separate  high-ranking commanders exclaim their disbelief at such an accusation, or at the audacity that someone would insinuate such a thing.

He's also heard two men agreeing with the sentiment, and made a mental note of their names for later.

“How dare they say that about my son!”

Ben flinched as Georges glass smashed against the wall. Something else they’d need to clean up.

“Where’s Alexander?”

“Sir?”

“Ben, I have two battles to go over, we haven’t received the money from Congress yet and I need to calm myself so, where is he?”

“Probably at his desk, sir. I'll go get him.”

.

.

.

“Sir?”

Alexanders eyes went wide at the shattered glass and books scattered around the room and Ben tried not to sigh. That he was  successful was stunning.

“Sir, what happened? Was there an attack?”

The General looked up from where he’d been picking up books and Ben saw a genuine smile, the same one that always seemed to appear when Alexander walked into a room, “No, no, it’s fine.”

It was stunning how quickly the General’s anger sunk below the surface when Alexander arrived. Ben had no doubt he was still angry, but outwardly, he was much calmer, pausing his actions to clasp his son’s shoulder. Another thing Ben had noticed, the General liked to reassure himself Alexander was there and safe whenever he could, often little more than a small touch, brushing a hand against his arm or side or shoulder.

Alex joined him helping pick up the books and papers, restacking them in an orderly manner. Ben went for the glass, amazed at how quickly Alexander had  improved the General’s mood.

“Are you well, sir?”

“I shall be fine, but I could do with some good news? Please.”

“Two victories, we routed the British at both skirmishes, and the first funds should come from Congress tomorrow. Of course, we’ve heard that one before, but...”

“We can always hope.”

“We can always hope.”

They weren’t wrong about that, but Benjamin hoped the money would indeed arrive. They needed it as an army, and the General needed it too. He was stressed enough without their funds being further pushed back. 

“Benjamin, excuse us, please.”

“ Of course, sir. Have a good evening.”

“Night, Ben.”

“Will you be joining me for dinner, son, we...”

The door shut, and Ben went on his way.

.

.

.

“Why did he take me, do you think?”

“What?”

“Senior, why did he take me? I can’t stop wondering.”

Benjamin hadn’t expected Alexander to come  see him of all people for this conversation, but somewhere along the line, he’d become one of the man’s closest confidents. Which had led them to their place seated on a settee in his office, exhausted and contemplating the world.

“You think there’s a reason? You don’t think it was just an act of malice.”

Alex's sigh was bone weary.

“The diary entry before the one I gave The General, it mentions us, I ran off and bumped into the man the morning before he took me, and he sold Martha a scarf. But why me. I can't have been the only child who’d ever run into him, kids are everywhere in places like that. Why me?”

Wasn't that the question...

Why had the man chosen to take Alexander?

Of all the children of all the homes, why did that man take him and him alone. It had been something Ben had wondered since he’d learnt Alex’s story, and yet, he couldn’t find an answer.

“Alex, I don’t think there was a real reason, no big plot. I think he was a bitter man and made an impulsive and malicious decision.”

It was the only conclusion he could draw, and he knew it wasn’t what Alexander would want to hear, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted to be able to say, but it was the only answer that he could find that made sense with the information he had. Unless there was something he didn’t know, some grudge between their families, some slight between Hamilton and the Washington’s he was not aware of, that’s all there was. 

A drunkard monster had taken a child for no reason but impulse and malice, and that was that.

“Is it bad that I feel like there should be a reason? He took me. I know he chose our home because we bumped into him and because Martha bought something off of him. But he’d broken into hundreds, thousands, of houses... why me?”

He dropped his head back against the threading material and sighed.

“I wish I could tell you something, Alex. It's not bad that you think there should be a reason, life is easier when things have reasons, but sometimes people are random or impulsive and there are no reasons. I'm not sure we’ll ever know.”

“I know. But I still wish I did.”

Ben had the feeling Alexander wasn’t the only one who wished he knew the answers. He wondered if the General had brought it up, perhaps over their dinner the night before, but he couldn’t imagine the General doing so. He blamed so much of what had happened on himself, and more than anything, he loathed putting worry or burden on Alexander’s shoulders beyond what was necessary out of that same guilt. He'd worked so hard for so long because, in their General’s eyes, he’d failed to protect Alexander.

It was unlikely indeed he’d ask Alexander, draw these thoughts back to the front of his mind. 

“He feels so much guilt. If I had a reason, I could appease it, end the guilt he feels, Ben.”

“His worry is not your burden, Alex.”

“Do you not see it in his eyes, Ben? Even when he smiles, every time he looks upon me, I cannot fix it. I cannot heal it.”

Ben did see it, see the slight sadness mixed with pride and love. As he thought of all the things he’d missed from Alexander’s life, but Ben doubted it could be fixed. A wound to the soul such as his, it would fade, but it could not be erased. You could put the pieces of a broken plate back together, paint it, smooth it, but there would always be a crack.

Of course, Alexander would try, he was a good man and wanted nothing more than to be the son he believed George deserved, something that concerned him more than he liked.

“Did you ever think it was not your job to fix it?” 

“Someone has to. Martha isn’t here, and it doesn’t look like she will be able to come to camp this winter. I just want to see the burden lift, because it is caused by me.”

Ah, so there was the issue. He blamed himself for what had happened.

As always.

“By James Hamilton, not by you. You were a child, Alexander. You did not choose it, you were a victim too.”

One day, Alexander would believe him.

He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every Ben chapter, I just think, Ben needs a break...  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	15. Alexander, November, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

Alexander collapsed onto his bunk as John whined,

“Ben, you were a teacher, help me.”

“Laurens, I taught reading and writing, history and maths, I'm as clueless as Alex when it comes to dancing.”

“ Laf ?”

“Non, I cannot dance. I was humiliated in front of half the court back in France for my lack of skills. I think, my friend, you must teach our Petit Lion alone.”

“You have all failed me.” 

“Failed you, I'm the one who’s supposed to be learning. Shame on you both, making John teach me alone.” 

“Alex, it’ll be fine. Once you have the basic steps the actual dances kind of fall together. You'll get it.”

“John, we’ve been at this for two hours and I'm no closer to being able to dance than I was then.”

“Well, you and John must keep it up, yes, Benjamin and I have other work to do.”

“Lafayette’s right, we have things to do, but you too keep dancing, I'm sure you’ll get it, Alex. If not, do what I do and stand by the walls listening to people.”

Alex groaned as the two left the tent.

He groaned differently when arms wrapped around him from behind, their bodies pressing close.

“Let’s do the steps again, Alex.”

“You know I won’t be able to focus with you like this.”

“I think you’re going to have to,” he sung, pressing his lips to the back of Alex’s neck, “aren’t you  Lexy ?”

“Ugh, what were they?”

“Step two three, back to three, step two three, left two three.”

Alex had to step, to make sure John’s legs didn’t trip his own. John had decided it was the best way to teach him the male steps, because he could hardly show up at a dance knowing the wrong steps.

But he adored being this close to his love, back to chest. John guided his arm movements with a firm grip on his wrists and his head was resting on Alexander’s shoulder, whispering the steps in his ear.

When he wasn’t giving steps, he was whispering praise on his advancement, something that made him keen. John's voice was angelic, the most amazing thing he’d ever heard, and whispering praise in his ears made his knees buckle.

Alex spun around, pressing their chests together, noses brushing.

This dance was less practiced, it wasn’t the steps you’d see on a ballroom floor, no this was just for the sake of being close. Holding each other close and swaying, stepping back and forth to a song no-one could hear.

After a few minutes of just swaying against each other, Alex pressing kisses to John’s neck and jaw, John twisted him again, making him do the steps over. His love wasn’t going to let him seduce his way out of learning the damned dance, apparently.

“Don’t pout.”

“You can’t even see my face.”

“It’s a beautiful face, and I know when it’s pouting.”

Johns breath ghosted over his ear as he spoke, and Alex couldn’t help but lean into him as he repeated the steps once again.

So what if he was pouting?

He pressed his body back slightly and John’s breath hitched before he nudged Alex’s feet back into the first position.

“Keep that up and you’re sleeping alone. I won’t touch you all night.”

Alex went back to the steps. He wasn’t risking that.

.

.

.

Alexander knew the mission had been going too well. He'd run missions like this frequently before joining his father's camp, and there was always something.

This mission hadn’t had it’s something.

Not when they’d crossed the  Schuylkill river, not when they’d taken the mill, nor when they’d lit the fires. In fact, they’d only heard the British yelling as they re-boarded their boats to go back across the river.

Oh but then the shooting started. He ducked as the first spray of shots echoed out, pushing one of his men down out of the way as he went. He righted himself to order a return fire and see what they were up against.

Gunshots rang out around him as they fired back, but too late he realised the Redcoats were preparing something.

A cannon.

They had a cannon.

“Get to the riverbank, now. Go. Archer, Cooper, take the men on the cannons."

They had time, if the tide was with them, to make it to reach the  treeline before the British prepped the cannon. They'd have to abandon the boats, but his men would live.

He fired a shot of his own into one of the men on the cannon, and saw another fall, but he also saw the cannon light.

“Bail out.”

He dove into the water and several of his men followed. As he hit the water, the boat he’d been on exploded into splinters. 

He tried yelling at his men to get to the shore, but he wasn’t certain if they could hear him. The flow of the water was so strong, he was already barely keeping himself from being dragged downstream.

He could see his men being pulled to safety, either being pulled into the boats or to shore from them.

Alex clutched the side of the boat, with another man in his grasp, and pushed him forwards, to the men pulling people onto their boat. Once he was on board, they’d pull him up.

But Alex wasn’t going to make it, he reached up for one of the men, it was too dark to see which but he couldn’t get a grip. He was holding onto the side of the boat with his right arm and he could feel it seizing up, the pain shooting from fingers to shoulder in a manner so all engulfing that his vision went grey. His hand spasmed and he slipped from the other man's hold. 

Alexander went under.

For a period of time lost to him, there was no river, no gunfire, no cannon, no swimming, no sky, no forests, no birds, no stars. There was only the pain. 

He broke the surface of the water with a splutter, choking up river water. The pain was fading, but he couldn’t move his arm, not with the strength he’d need to get to shore with a current this strong. He could make out a faint glow behind him, that of the fire, but he couldn’t see men or hear gunfire, the water too loud and the battle too far upstream. Instead, he leant backwards and floated down the river on his back, all too aware the waters cold could kill him if he didn’t escape it in time.

He had to stay awake.

Eventually he spotted what he needed, a downed tree leaning out over half the river. This was his moment. Ignoring the strain in his muscles and the pure exhaustion he felt, he struggled to the tree, then to the shore. 

He dropped to his knees, then onto his back, on the muddy bank. He  staired up, wishing for stars to guide him home, but God was not with him.

Flakes of snow began to fall from the sky.

He hated snow.

Part of him wanted to stay where he was, to lie back and sleep and let the snow take him.

Would they find his body? 

Martha and George, his parents, they were waiting for him to come home. His father was waiting for him back at camp. His mother was at Mt Vernon, she was alone.

In his mind's eye he saw him sitting at his desk, in the candle light, looking out at the same snow beginning to fall, worry creasing his brow because Alex and his men weren’t back yet. He saw his father watching the men return, seeing that he wasn’t among them, seeing WIlliams, if he’d survived, letting him know Alex had been taken by the river. He saw George realising he’d lost his son a second time, saw the guilt on his face, saw his hand shake as he penned the letter to Martha.

He saw his mother reading the letter that her son was dead.

He saw  Laf , Ben...

John.

He had to get back to camp.

He rolled onto his front and forced himself to his knees, then his feet. 

He stumbled into the trees; in the direction he hoped the camp was.

‘Don't give up on me, pa, I'm coming back. I'm coming home.’

Alexander stumbled through the forest until the sun was up, and thanked God that even though the snow was still falling, heavier and colder than it had been when the storm started, the sun was visible through the clouds, even if its warmth didn’t reach.

The sun rises in the east, he had his way home.

If he fell to the forest floor a dozen times of more, if he scraped his palms and knees bloody, right arm held to his chest, if he shivered so much his jaw hurt for clenching it, he didn’t notice.

One foot in front of the other. Get back up again. Just keep going.

No matter how much the world swayed and spun, no matter how awful he felt, he had to get back.

He barely even noticed making it into the bounds of the camp, barely noticed the people who called his name.

His legs gave under him, and he realised as they went, he wasn’t going to be able to get up again this time, but it didn’t matter, because strong arms had caught him, and were lowering him down to the earth.

Above him was the same grey sky, small flakes of snow falling out of it, and then a face, he knew that face, it meant safety, he was safe.

His eyes fluttered closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops...  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	16. Alexander, November, 1779 pt 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

Alex found himself in a place that wasn’t awake or asleep.

The sheets wrapped around him were soft, the bed below him perhaps the most comfortable he’d ever been in. The room was warm too, he could hear the crackle and spit of a fire, smell the slightly smoky scent to the air.

There was a familiar voice humming, and the sound of a quill scratching on paper. 

It was soothing.

Alex was exhausted, he wanted to rouse himself properly, but he just sank lower into the layers of sleep.

He found himself in this place several times. Sometimes there was a hand through his hair, a damp cloth on his forehead, a hand in his. Instead of the humming, sometimes he was being spoken too, he heard someone else telling the voice he was improving, and he knew who that someone else was too. He recognised all the voices that came and went, even if he couldn’t put a name to any of them, but one was consistent.

He had no idea how much time was passing.

It felt like every time he tried to summon the strength to wake and every time he failed.

He finally cracked his eyes open.

“Alexander?”

The hand holding his squeezed, and his eyes found the face above him.

“Pa?” he heard himself mutter, but he sipped back under before the General could respond.

The next time he woke, the world had been thrown into far sharper relief.

If nothing else, the pain was back. His arm was killing him, his throat felt raw, his mouth dry, head pounding. He could feel the shivers and shudders but he was too hot, sweat across his brow. His chest was tight, and god did his body hurt. He almost missed the quiet, unknowing of the void he’d been in.

The quill scratching was back, but it paused as he tried to sit up, only to start coughing.

There was a chair scraping, then hands helping him upright, and a pillow pushed behind him that he was settled against as he regained his breath. He knew this room, it was the General’s room, the General’s bed. It was the General, his father, who stood above him, relief and worry painting his face.

“Sir?”

“Oh Alex, thank God.”

“Wh’” he cut off, feeling like he’s basted his throat in chalk, and a cup of water was pressed into his hands, steadying them as he lifted it to drink.

“Small sips, small sips.”

“What happened?”

“You went into the  Schuylkill river, then walked yourself back to camp. You've been asleep for over a week, son.”

“Oh... my men?”

“All accounted for. Two were killed, but you were the only one missing.”

“The river, my arm, I couldn’t... I'm sorry...”

“I shouldn’t have let you go. The doctor warned us, said your arm could act up in winter, I should have sent someone else. I'm sorry I didn’t think of it.”

“We succeeded?”

“The flour was destroyed; the British didn’t get any of it.”

Alex felt his eyes sagging with a sudden wave of exhaustion. His father moved the cup from his hands to the table besides him, brushing a hand through his hair.

“It’s ok, son, sleep. I'll let the doctor know you woke. And Ben and  Billy and  Lafayette and John, they’ve been worried. We've all been so worried.”

“I’m sorry.”

If he’d stayed awake longer, he would have seen his father frown, and heard him insist the apology was not his to give.

.

.

.

The next time he woke,  Billy had run for the doctor.

The doctor who checked him over and deemed him recovered from the hypothermia.

Miraculously, he hadn’t lost any fingers or toes to frostbite, but because the cold had stolen so much energy from him, he’d contracted a sickness. The man had made him sit, despite the strain, and listened to his lungs with a frown. Pneumonia, he'd declared. There was nothing he could do but prescribe rest and hydration.

Once the doctor had left, the General sat himself onto the bed next to him, and manoeuvred Alex against him, leant into the warmth, semi-upright and shivering.

“I do hate winter.”

“Believe me, son, I'm starting to.”

“I was looking for the stars and the snow started, didn’t help me home.”

“But you did make it home. You're here now, safe.”

He felt awful, incredibly unwell. There was a weight on his chest, and judging by the coughing he’d done since he’d woken, it was only going to worsen. His head was  spinny and despite the sweat, he shivered. His whole body ached, and he was glad to be partially upright, because when he’d been lying down, he’d been barely able to breathe. 

All in all, it sucked.

A hand threaded through his hair and he leant into it, letting his eyes flutter closed for a few seconds or minutes, trying to ignore the tickling in his throat, before he was struck by a thought.

“Aren’t people going to notice I've been in your room?”

“As far as most people know you’re just in here because the building is warm.”

“Rumours are going to fly.”

“They always do, and many of them sicken me, but there are many rooms in this building, who's to say you’re in this bed and not one in your or Ben’s office below. Besides, no-one will begrudge you a warm bed, the story of how you saved your men has spread through the camp. A tent would be too cold in this weather, in your  condition . You nearly died for them. We thought you had, when they returned without you, they said you’d been taken by the river. They said you were gone. I thought I'd lost you again.”

“I’m  sor ...” he broke off, body heaving with the force of the coughs. There were hands on his shoulders, supporting him, until the coughs passed and he fell back against his father, short of breath and exhausted. The hands on his shoulders became arms wrapped around him, supporting him where he was slumped and wrapping the thick duvet back over him.

“I’m sorry.” he finally managed, chest heaving with the effort.

“No, you did the right thing. I'm so proud, you have no reason to apologise, little one. You saved them. And you will recover, Alex.”

If there was one thing his father was very good at, it seemed it was comfort. 

For a second, he imagined sickness as a child, imagined instead of dealing with it alone, or working through it, or being held in his mother's... no, he cut that train of thought and imagined being sick instead in their care.

Imagined being held by his real father as sickness wracked his body, held with comfort he’d never really been afforded, in thick blankets instead of the ratty thin rags, with pillows and mattress instead of planks and a bundled-up jacket. 

James Hamilton Sr had never comforted him in sickness. Not once. 

He imagined being held like this, soft humming behind him, rather than struggling onwards alone, but couldn’t summon the anger that had once burnt so fiercely within him.

He was so tired of being angry about what had happened. So tired of getting annoyed about everything he could have had and everything he’d lost.

He wanted to get over it.

“Sleep, Alexander, you’re safe. Just rest.”

He let his eyes fall closed, head resting against his father’s chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat. There was humming again, and one of the hands holding him moved to stroke his hair.

He'd never fallen asleep so quickly in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, Alex gets the hug he needs.  
> I hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading.  
> Please R+R.


	17. George, November, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuupppdddaatteee...  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

George remembered staring at the snow, a sinking feeling in his chest.

Part of it was from the conformation that the winter had come so early that Martha would not be making it to camp. The window had passed as the weather had closed in, meaning he would likely not see her until spring if they were lucky, with things how they were. He wished he’d bidden her a better farewell at the Party held at Arnolds home, but he hadn’t known then he wouldn’t be seeing her again that year. Alexander hadn’t even had the chance to see her, he hadn’t been able to make it to the party.

Alexander hated the snow.

That was where the true dread was spawning from.

Alexander hated the snow, bitterly.

He remembered he’d thought that, staring out the window, knowing Alexander was out there, most likely on his way back from the mission.

He remembered Billy Lee coming to him to report that Alexander’s group of men had stumbled back, chilled to the bone, just before dawn, many suffering with hypothermia and chills.

He remembered scanning their numbers in the dawn light, too far away for faces. Two bodies, one missing.

He remembered the young man, reporting in  Alexander’s place.

Because Alexander wasn’t there.

He was stuck out in the snow.

Alexander hated the snow.

They said he was a hero, that he’d saved the lives of most of the men there, in one way or another, but that the river currents had pulled him from their grasp. Literally torn from the hands of the men trying to pull him to safety.

He was alone in the snow.

Alexander wasn’t fond of being alone either.

This was not the first time someone had told him Alexander was dead, no, he’d heard it to many times after his kidnapping, but he’d never given up.

He wasn’t giving up now.

Alexander was out in the snow, alone.

He had to hold onto hope.

He wasn’t the only one. Benjamin had asked permission to take out his Dragoons immediately to search, officially, for Redcoats pushing an advance following their attack, but realistically for Alexander.

He'd given permission without hesitation.

Lafayette had volunteered to tell Laurens, poor boy must be heartbroken, and he’d ordered Billy Lee away so he could be alone.

Martha.

Oh how would he be able to write a letter to Martha to tell her he’d failed their son again.

The snow fell more heavily.

Alexander hated the snow.

.

.

.

It was just past noon when his boy returned.

Before Benjamin’s patrols, without Benjamin’s patrols, his boy had found his way home.

George had seen him stumble into camp. The same path his men had taken early that morning. He'd looked blinded by cold and exhaustion,  unreactive to the men who called his name.

He'd caught the boy as he fell, and his eyes had looked up with something like recognition before they’d rolled into the back of his head.

George had seen the corpses of too many drowned men not to recognise the look on his son, but his son lived.

His son lived.

George had never been happier to greet a failed patrol than here, where he could tell them Alexander had made it home before them.

Ben’s knees had given out with relief, and it was something George had experienced himself when Alexander had returned.

And yet, Alexander didn’t wake. 

He warmed, until the doctor was no longer worried about the cold, but he did not wake.

It was in this time he penned the letter to Martha, explaining Alexanders sickness but firmly stating he was alive. He insisted she remained safe away from the war and the battles and the danger not to mention the issues the early onset of winter on traveling, and prayed she’d listen.

He gave his son his bed, took a bedroll and blankets on the floor for himself, and made sure the fire never dimmed. There were nights, colder nights, where Alexander wouldn’t stop shivering and thrashing in his sleep, nights where he couldn’t rouse himself to full wakefulness to escape whatever he could see in his dreams, where George sat in the bed with him, held him close until the quaking died down and he calmed back to a deeper sleep.

He was not alone in his vigil.

Laurens asked entry more than once a day. He was not alone in it, no Benjamin and Lafayette asked to see him persistently, but Laurens...

Did the boys really think he hadn’t noticed there was more between them than friendship?

Oh, they were subtle, very much so, but George was Alexanders father and years of separation or not, there were things a parent would just know. The lack of protest when ordered to share a bed with Laurens, the way their hands brushed slightly when they passed, the word dearest added to a note. The quiet early hours of the morning where they sat together in the candlelight alone in their office. The way they worried for one another when they were away, or injured, or sick. 

He did not care who his son had chosen to love, beyond the sympathy of knowing it could not last. They would both be expected to marry and have children, this could not last beyond the war. It was not fair, but there would be nothing he could do to change what society thought. Of course, if they were ever discovered, Laurens was to blame and his son was a victim, because he would not watch his son hang.

He could not lose him.

Alexander first showed signs of waking a week after his arrival, stirring in the late evening, while George had been holding his hand. 

He fell back asleep within the minute, but he’d responded to George. 

It warmed his heart to be called pa by his son, it warmed his heart to know his boy lived and was recovering. But would Alexander ever call him pa when he was awake, or would it be reserved only for when he was delirious with sickness?

The second time, Alexander was awake for far longer.

He had woken while George was writing a response to General Arnold, and broken into a coughing fit. But from there, he’d managed to hold a conversation, asking for his men and the result of the mission rather than his own health. Once the coughing had subsided and he’d wetted his dry throat.

He again had not remained awake for long, at least not as long as George would have hoped for, and this time he seemed sicker. His breathing had become more laboured over the day prior to his waking, and the coughing fit, he knew, had to be a bad sign. 

He worried greatly for his son, despite how much his son worried about worrying people. It was a father’s job to worry for their child. That he would apologise for worrying them after his near-death experience, it was terrifying.

And his arm, why had George let him go on the mission? Sure, the doctor had said it was fine, and for months it had been no issue, but it was winter now, the cold was back.

Should he not have foreseen that this could happen? 

Oh, his dear son. How he had failed him so.

Then pneumonia.

Such a sickness could take him with all too much ease.

He wondered what he had done to curse his son so, what had placed this burden on his son that a terrible fate would always befall him. Why could he not have a break? Why could he not have happiness?

George braced his boy as he coughed up what sounded like his lung. Listened as his breathing stuttered. 

Oh little one.

He returned to stroking the boy’s hair and he knew from the way Alex’s posture softened, it was a comfort. Alex's head was resting on his heart, listening to his heartbeat. He'd done it as a baby too, George recalled, listened to either his or Martha’s heartbeats to sleep. It had been the easiest way to calm him. 

All these years and Alexander still slept better with a heartbeat under his head.

Of course, as a baby, Alexander had been small enough to lie completely on his torso and had fit into his arms.

He's been so small.

He pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. He'd done that too, when Alex was little.

Another round of coughing and wheezing shook Alexander’s body, although he didn’t wake.

He'd pull through this, he’d recover.

He had to.

.

.

.

It took over a week for Alexander to shake the cough. 

A week of listening to him cough his lungs up, watching him sleep more in one week than he probably had since joining the camp, shivering and rosy cheeked. 

A week of endless worry.

But once the cough was loosening its grip on his chest, he was insisting on returning to his work.

Twice, George had found him at his desk, shaking not with the cold but with the effort it had taken to get there. And once more collapsed on the floor having made the attempt.

The boy’d thought it was funny.

He laughed as George carried him back to the bed, not even losing his grin when a cough overtook the laugh, dropping his head to George’s shoulder once it was over. Apparently, there was something funny about falling from exhaustion and not being able to make it back to his desk or even to his feet, but George couldn’t see it.

This was his baby, he couldn’t  bear to see him anything but happy and healthy and strong.

Worse, when he’d lifted Alexander, he’d weighed so little. He knew sickness stole weight and Alexander had been sick indeed, but he should not have been able to heft his boy like a small child. He needed to get him eating more again, before the winter shortages came in.

But once tucked into his bed he’d started protesting his boredom once again, he’d definitely inherited George’s  stubbornness .

In the end he let him write from his bed, and limited how much he was allowed to do a day. He was not letting his son make himself sicker but he also wasn’t letting him hurt himself trying to  alleviate his boredom and busy his mind.

The sooner he recovered the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	18. Arnold, December, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, new chapter and it's likely they'll be weekly from now on for a while. I'm having a little writers block (I've fallen back into Star Wars head first) but I have quite a lot pre-written so don't worry.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

For most of the meeting, he observed. Clinton and André had agreed to meet, to settle things in person and to discuss their next plans. Payment and much along those lines was being settled, and all that was left was strategy. To this, he had been holding his tongue more than usual, knowing it was not entirely his place to jump in that way if he was to get what he wanted. 

“We need to strike at the heart,” Clinton was saying, “if we can’t kill Washington, maybe someone around him, someone he’s close to?”

“Like the assassination of Mr Nathaniel  Sackett , keep them focused on stopping an attack on Washington and leave the real target unprotected.”

“Indeed. There are rumours of him, what was it, ‘collecting young men’? Perhaps one of them would suffice. It's not as though they wouldn’t deserve it, sinning against God in such a way.”

Benedict knew he pulled a face, schooling himself too late.

“What's wrong, Arnold, I thought you didn’t like Washington, after everything that had happened? I can’t imagine this kind of slander would annoy you.”

“Disgust is a better word, sir, and it has less to do with Washington and more to do with the men he is accused of... collecting. I can’t say I care for someone like the Marquis, but some of them are honourable men. They don’t deserve such slander put to their names.”

He hoped that covered his slip, but why cover it at all. He'd already betrayed the Continentals, and Washington, and Washington had betrayed him, cast him aside as though he were useless.

If he told the British about Alexander Washington, he’d be rewarded, and it would likely end the war that much sooner.

But he’d sworn to his once-friend that he’d protect the boy. That the British would not find out about the boy from him.

Then again, if he remembered correctly, he’d sworn ‘our enemies’ and they no longer had a common enemy. 

“Arnold, something on your mind?”

André sounded almost amused.

“How far are we willing to go?”

“How so?”

“To hurt Washington, are there moral boundaries?”

“Say your piece, and we will decide.”

“You know of Alexander Hamilton?”

“Indeed, Washington’s chief aide-de-camp. I've heard many a rumour about his place in Washington’s bed.”

Benedict pressed his lips again, before continuing. 

“I can assure you; Hamilton is no bedwarmer. In fact, his name isn’t even Hamilton, it’s a cover, a protection. After all, Alexander Hamilton is not as much a target of the British as Alexander Washington would be.”

The reaction was instant, and dramatic. Clinton shot to his feet with a yell.

“Washington! He... what?”

“George likes to keep his son close, but also wants him safe. I think you can imagine how protective a man like him is as a father.”

“So,” André asked, “the boy works under a fake name, it’s smart.”

Clinton looked unconvinced.

“Wait, I thought Washington’s son died when he was a child, taken by sickness.”

“Taken yes, but not by sickness, by a man. He was stolen. Only for them to reconnect by chance years later. You should have seen Washington’s face when he told me, I've honestly never seen such joy in that man.”

“Incredible.”

“So, morality? Are we willing to send an assassin after Washington’s son? Attack a child to harm the father.”

“Go back to your post in  Philidelphia , General Arnold, we need you there, providing a constant flow of information, but rest assured, your country thanks you for this. You will be recognised for your service.”

.

.

.

Had he made a mistake?

Benedict couldn’t sleep. George had trusted him with Alexander, with Alexanders real identity.

He'd just betrayed that.

This wasn’t the lives of 100s of men or the future of a nation, and yet it plagued him more than any other piece of information given had.

Maybe it was the circumstances, he mused. It was his first face to face meeting with any of the British since he’d turned. A meeting with André and Clinton in neutral territory. A discussion of what he'd get for his change of heart and his joining the right side. Every discussion before had been through letters and code, but things were changing.

He’d finally been allowed to meet with his new leaders in person.

And he’d given them the tool they need to win.

He’d given them Alexander.

The boy who in another world would have been his nephew. Would have grown up calling him Uncle Benedict and come to him when he’d gotten himself into trouble and didn’t want to go to his dad about it. The boy whose scraped knees he would have patched up. The boy who...

Not this world, he reminded himself. No, some vagrant had taken Alexander all those years ago, and now he was going to give the boy to the British.

He sighed aloud.

This would be the thing George would never forgive him for.

The man might be able to justify his following his beliefs, even if he didn’t agree. He might be able to understand why he’d change his coats, even if he’d never do the same.

But he’d never forgive him for giving Alexander to his enemy.

Peggy rolled over in her sleep, nuzzling into his shoulder.

Soon he’d have the respect and money and power George had denied him and she’d be in comfort in his protection. They'd both be on the winning side when the war was over and the dust had cleared. They'd be safe.

He didn’t need George’s forgiveness. 

Not one bit.

.

.

.

Just shy of two months later, George gave him command of West Point and perhaps a future field command with it.

Two months too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.  
> ish.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	19. Alexander, December, 1779.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Hey, new chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

Winter at camp was a mess.

It was something Alexander had noticed again and  again; in every camp he’d been stationed at since the war began. Without enemies to fight, the men grew restless.

There were more brawls and scuffles, more arguments, and with the usual shortages of food and space and privacy, well, it was a very unique environment.

But Alexander was thriving within it.

Well, thriving may not have been a fair word to use, but he was certainly managing far better than most.

He'd been raised in a community with limited food and space, raised in a place with high tensions every day of the week and hour of the day. Where many of the men, and most of the men he worked close to, were struggling with the lack of food, he was managing just fine. They all needed to stop complaining so much.

Hell, he’d snapped at both Lafayette and John at different times when they’d complained about the reduced meals, because they were still getting food every day thank you very much and life could be far far far worse than this.

But then, if he hadn’t had that argument with John, he likely wouldn’t have had the chance to become friends with Mrs Anna Strong.

He'd stormed out, taking a stack of papers with him that he needed to pass on to Ben, who was in his tent, not his office, because of course he was out in the cold rather than the warmth of the main house.

She, Brewster and Ben had been creating battle strategies and working on their spy ring and, paused in the doorway, he had mentally kicked himself for not realising that she was helping run the ring because it was so obvious once he knew. And some days it was frighteningly clear that she was the brains of the operation. 

With hindsight, it was clear she was more than just a camp follower and apparently, that was not the only thing that was obvious, because she’d pulled him aside and asked discreetly but bluntly whether his being Washington’s son was supposed to be a secret because with the way they behaved, the fake name wasn’t doing much to fool anyone, at least in her opinion.

He traded their story for hers, for how she joined the ring and came to camp, not the one Ben had abbreviated, but the real one, the long, dramatic, painful one.

He had nothing but respect for what she’d done for their cause, and what she insisted on doing as they continued forwards.

And her work keeping things calm in camp, looking after the camp followers, looking after the interest of the men, working on other ways to get them food and keeping an eye and ear out for spies within the camp and camp followers the whole time.

Not to mention all the rumours of her cheating on her husband for Ben, not that he knew of them.

Alex had laughed when she’d explained it, doubled over and teared up, and she’d pleaded, also laughing, for him not to let Ben know, because his honour and cluelessness would only make things worse. 

“He’d try to dismiss the rumours by telling people to stop talking about it. You know that would only make them worse.”

“How can he be so smart in some areas and yet so naive? You grew up with him, you must know.”

“I wish I had an answer, I do. He's... I don’t understand. Maybe he just needs a wife, or at least, exposure to a woman that he hadn’t known since he was a child.”

She'd barely managed to finish the sentence, she was laughing so hard, and Alex’s laughter only increased.

“Surely he has to have had someone. On, oh, Anna, please tell me there’s some special sweetheart back in your town, please.”

“Ugh, I wish. I think he’d be better for it. He's clueless. He's never been with anyone”

“He is religious, is it a til marriage thing?”

“It’s an ‘he’s met every woman in the town and didn’t like any of them’ thing. And given he didn’t change before and after Yale, I'm guessing nothing happened there either.” 

“Too busy studying and being awkward to meet anyone.”

“You two talking about  Beny’s love life or lack thereof?”

They'd both whipped around at Caleb’s voice, but he was grinning and had stories of his own.

It had been a very entertaining evening.

They'd met up several times over the next few days and become fast friends.

Alex had eventually asked what her husband thought of what she was doing, only to find out he didn’t even know she was in camp and believed she was still serving back in  Setauket . 

Unlike most of the men in the camp, and probably the world, he didn’t think there was much issue in his not knowing. His mother had been fine on her own, and if Mrs Strong was happy and willing to be here, he had no qualm with that. He knew well enough that women could do just fine on her own.

He supposed it was nice she had a husband willing to let her do her part for the cause, but it was sad that they weren’t close or happy, that she was married to someone but she did not love him and wasn’t certain she ever had. It was clear to see and sad because a woman willing do so much and sacrifice so much deserved more than a broken marriage.

He also felt for her, perhaps in a way most of the camp could not. 

She'd fallen in love with Hewlett, the man who had been her mark, who she’d only befriended to get access to his information. She'd acted on his interest for their cause, but then she’d fallen for him too, something that plagued her. Not only did he feel for her struggle in how much she’d given up personally for their cause, but because he understood her.

She'd fallen in love with a British officer.

He'd fallen in love with a man.

Neither of them could be with the person they loved.

Not that he could tell her that.

But she was willing to give everything for America’s freedom, her life, her home, her husband, her love, her reputation, her safety, all of it, all of it so they might win.

And he admired that greatly.

.

.

.

One of Alexander’s favourite winter pastimes was eating a dinner with his father.

It was such a simple thing, but he wasn’t sure there would ever be a day he didn’t take pleasure in it.

He got to eat dinner with his father.

Just to sit and talk, just to be together and be loved.

It was something so common, so normal, but even after almost a year, it felt so novel.

He had a loving father.

He had loving parents.

He was more than willing to spare an hour of his day for that. For... for proof.

That’s what it was. 

Proof.

A simple show of affection.

A simple display that he was worth his father’s time, that he was wanted.

He wondered if his father saw it in the same way, realised quite how much it meant to him? Did it mean the same to the Great General Washington? 

He had the strangest feeling it did.

.

.

.

“You know what, Lexy, if I die, at least I won’t be forced to marry. My betrothed can marry someone who deserves her, and I won’t have to lie.”

“Never say that, my dearest John. I can’t bear to lose you.”

“Oh, my sweet, you know what I mean.”

Alex let his face fall back into the pillows, trying relax his shoulders again. John was somewhat absently massaging them, had been for a while, but Alex had stiffened at the random and morbid comment.

“I do not like to hear you speak of your life so carelessly. You're too reckless.”

“Relax, my love, you know I would fight to live. Besides, you can’t speak, you’re just as bad as I.”

He'd have flipped himself over to argue, all ideas of relaxation or affection to be abandoned, but John had him basically pinned to the bunk. He could escape if he really needed, but it wasn’t worth the fight. He still wiggled as if he was going to.

Several kisses trailed there was from one shoulder to the other.

“You’re just as bad as me, Lexy, always asking for a  command , always trying to get into the fight, but what happens when you do?”

He shivered as his beloved pressed his lips to a small scar on his side, midway between his hips and shoulders. He'd been clipped by a shot while liberating some cannons from the British a few years past.

Fingers trailed up and down his back, feather-light touches mixed with kisses and he found himself relaxing once again under John’s ministrations. He didn’t mean to, he wanted to stay angry, but he was relaxing none the less.

As John’s weight shifted upwards and his hands and lips returned to his shoulders, Alexander twisted, capturing John’s lips with his own and drawing it out. John nipped his lower lip with his teeth and hummed into the kiss,  weaving a hand through Alexanders hair and pressing him deeper into the kiss.

No matter how many times they kissed like that, it always left Alexander feeling giddy and needy.

And safe and loved and a million other things.

It made his mind stop, because all he could focus on was John’s lips and body and the hand in his hair and for just a few seconds, nothing else mattered.

Tha hand in his hair pulled him out of the kiss, and he let his eyes flutter closed. The other hand ghosted across the scar under his shoulder.

“These happen. You get hurt. You're so reckless, you need someone watching you, keeping you out of trouble. I should keep you in this bed, safe and sound. Away from harm.”

At that moment, Alexander couldn’t disagree.

.

.

.

Alexander was ridiculously happy.

It was winter, the worst season, it was cold, which made his shoulder ache and his body slow, they were lower on food than they’d wanted to be, there were few rooms in the home they were staying in so he was sleeping in a tent, he should have been more miserable than ever.

But Aaron Burr was coming to camp.

He hadn’t seen Aaron since the summer he’d come to his Father’s camp, they’d been posted at different places the whole time.

He was so happy to see his oldest friend again.

The man was coming to camp because his unit had been stationed there for the Winter, and perhaps the year following unless it was decided they’d be more useful elsewhere. He was admittedly a little jealous of the command Aaron held, given they were the same rank but he got to fight, but not so much that he’d begrudge his friendship. He was glad for what Aaron had achieved.

As for his own chances at command, slim was an  understatement .

It was a battle of wills of two of the most stubborn people on the planet, something that was apparently hereditary. And on that thought he realised Aaron was the only of his friends who did not  yet know the truth of his parentage, something they were unwilling to ever put into letter form and risk falling to the  enemy's grasp.

He'd been practically vibrating, waiting for the man to arrive, and as soon as he noticed him riding into the camp, he’d been out of his chair running for the door.

He had greatly missed his friend.

“Alexander, you look… well .”

He hadn’t even dismounted, but despite his normal reserved demeanour, there was a smile there, and concern too.

“I look like I just recovered from pneumonia.” 

He quipped back, hoping it would alleviate any concern he might have had. He still looked sickly, but he was fine, and Aaron had no reason to worry, but his greeting had been a question.

“Yes, but I didn’t want to be rude.”

“You never do. And I'm fine, recovering well. I’ve missed you, my friend, it’s been too long.”

“It has indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	20. George, December, 1779

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

George watched from the window as Alexander ran towards and embraced the man dismounting from the horse.

“Ugh, Burr.”  Lafayette had groaned, “a joy.”

“Be nice, Laf,” Laurens had defended, “he’s Alex’s friend.”

“How are they friends, they’re so different?”

“I have no idea, but they are friends. And don’t forget,  Laf , if not for Burr we wouldn’t have met Alex.”

“Ugh. I think we would have met him.”

“Why wouldn’t they be friends?”

He was almost happy Benjamin had asked, because he hadn’t wanted to pry, curiosity aside.

“Oh, Alex is, well, Alex, loud and outspoken. Burr is... I have never heard him voice his point once.”

“That, Laf, is an exaggeration. Besides, he’s still here. I'd rather he was fighting and quiet than outspoken but didn’t actually do anything.”

“That is true, but they are so different.”

“You remember that thing with Seabury. I've never seen Burr look so defeated.”

This was a story George wanted, or maybe it wasn’t.

“You didn’t see his face  Laf . He turned around to find me and just as he made eye contact, I saw Alex behind him and he spun around, and he just slumped.”

Alexander and Burr had turned for the house, and he realised he recognised the man.

“He’s the one who applied for the same job I gave Alex.”

“Yeah, but don’t worry, he won’t be angry.”

“Burr doesn’t get angry.”

He'd never met anyone who didn’t get angry, but then Lafayette had said he was not opinionated either. Alexander's opposite,  it seemed.

.

.

.

“Sir, I was thinking, I'd like to tell  Aaron, Burr , about us, about my parentage.”

“Are you sure? I... I do not know him well. How can I be sure he will not betray us?”

Alexander rubbed his shoulder, and ploughed on characteristically with his argument.

“I am sure. I have not seen him in too long, as you know, but he is one of my oldest and most trusted friends. I know him.”

“You’re opposites.”

“And yet we’re very similar. We both studied law, and doing fast tracked 2-year courses. We both believe in the Revolution, in abolition, women's rights, better access to education for all. just because I'm loud and he’s quiet, I jump in and he waits and watches, I don’t always understand it, but we’re more similar than we are different. Besides, he does his best to keep me out of trouble and I do my best to get him into it. We're good for each other.”

“Tries to?”

“It was him vs me, Laf, Herc and John. 4 on 1 aren’t fantastic odds.”

George snorted slightly; Alexander wasn’t wrong. It was hell trying to keep him safe, and George was trying. If Burr could be an ally in that, he would not refuse it.

“Anyone who tries to keep you alive...”

“He was my first friend when I came to America. It wasn’t easy, when I first arrived, there are a lot of people who greatly dislike immigrants. But he was kind, willing to talk with me, helped me with my classes, introduced me to Laf and Herc and John.  Hell, I lived with him until I moved into Herc’s spare room.”

He did his best not to chafe at the mention of the struggles his son had faced. The things he hadn’t prevented.

“If you trust him with this, Alex, I trust your judgement. I always have.”

.

.

.

Last Christmas, Alexander had been there, but he hadn’t known Alexander was his son.

Now, now he knew, he was getting the first Christmas with his son in 20 years, and he was terrified.

Terrified it would go wrong,  terrified of everything that could happen. 

Because despite the past year of knowing the truth, he had no idea how to approach it.

Getting a hold of gifts was going to be almost impossible, food was in short supply, hell, he couldn’t keep a real roof over Alexanders  head this winter unless he wished to sleep at his desk.

He wasn’t sleeping at his desk; it would be awful for his back and wasn’t proper sleep anyway.

The only gift he could give Alexander was more work, and as much as he might appreciate that, it hardly felt proper. 

Although, large stacks of work would probably be a good idea, because it would keep him in his warm office rather than his cold tent or out and about. Between the lingering damage to his shoulder and how prone to sickness Alexander was, not to mention the damage his recent bout of pneumonia had done, he still hadn’t recovered the weight he’d lost and he was so young...

George really was adopting his son’s hatred for Winter.

But there were upsides to the season.

The fighting had almost completely ceased, save for a few scuffles and skirmishes, the dangers mainly passed and best of all, there were Balls being held.

He had to admit he loved a party, or at least, the opportunities within one. It was always a good chance to talk to friends old and new alike, to reconnect with people he’d lost contact with, to make new friends or allies. It was a good opportunity to talk with the people who decided whether his men received the funding they needed for food and munitions and to impart their plight not through letters but face to face.

Alexander did not seem to mind that Christmas was going to be a smaller affair than George wanted, and he wondered how his little one had spent his holidays in the past. Had he even been able to celebrate, or had the need for money caused him to work through days like  Christmas too?

Maybe just having a day off and a meal and a drink would be a gift?

Maybe what he saw as nothing would to him be something.

He was jolted out of his musing by a knock at the door, a rhythmic knock his son used.

Think of the devil and all that...

“I’ve finished the papers from last night, sir. We've sorted through all the scouts reports and missives from other camps and combined them, as always.”

“Ever efficient, anything important?”

“Not really, all’s quiet, a few spies have been weeded out in some of the other camps, but there’s nothing important, nothing to worry about. It looks like the  Lobsters are hoping for a quiet Christmas too.”

“Thank you, there’s a new stack of reports that came in just before dawn on the shelf, let me...”

“Don’t worry, pa, I've got it.”

George froze.

Alex had moved on like he didn’t even realise what he’d said, said goodbye and left the room to work on this new stack of papers, oblivious, but George felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Alex called him Pa.

His son had called him Pa.

Christmas was a time of joy and  miracle indeed.

.

.

.

George missed his Martha terrebly. 

Usually, in the holiday’s, she’d visit camp.  Usually, he’d be able to hold her close.

Now even the missives felt cold with how much he could not say and how much she could not ask for fear of their being intercepted.

He wanted little more than to  regale her with tales of their son, to share his burdens and for her advice where his own ideas fell short. She always had the best advice and the fastest kindest mind.

Instead, they were both alone, far too many miles apart.

Part of him once again longed for a reason to send his little one home to safety, to his mother, away from the war. He would never wish injury on his son, but perhaps something else. A missive that needed to be delivered and then a freak storm...

More than anything he longed for this war to be over. 

.

.

.

In the end Christmas was a quiet affair.

Simple food, slightly more expensive alcohol than was usually available, few guests. They were joined by men like Tallmadge and Laurens and Lafayette, but many of them left to join their men celebrating together outside and by the end of the night, his son was the only one left with him.

He uncapped the port and poured out two drinks, passing one glass to Alexander, who joined him at the window looking out at the small fires across the camp surrounded by men taking joy in the season.

“Merry Christmas, son.”

Alexander offered him a small but genuine smile, “Merry Christmas, pa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, hope you enjoyed it.  
> Happy holidays to all who celebrated.  
> Please R+R.


	21. Alexander, January, 1780

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Chapter.  
> Also, happy new year, 2020 is over. Whoop Whoop.  
> Lets hope things get better from here, and that in a years time this note won't look really stupid and naive.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

“Who knows  Lexy , one day you could end up married to one of the ladies in this ballroom?”

“Or you, dear John. I am not the only man whose status would befit him marry whether he liked it or not.”

They were in the home of the  Schyulers , a predominant family headed by a loyal man who had been made scapegoat by Congress for a loss a few years prior. He'd heard quite a bit about the family over the years, knew the daughters were at the forefront of a woman's campaign to raise them money by influencing their husbands and fathers and all around spend less on themselves and more on the soldiers defending them. It was admirable.

“My marriage has already been arranged, once the war ends, so even if I never leave your heart, try to marry a woman whose eye catches yours.”

“Speaking of, John, the pretty girl who’s been eyeing me all night...”

“You think she’s pretty...?”

“I think she’s coming this way with Miss Angelica Schuyler.”

“Oh no. That'll go well. You remember the dances I showed you.”

“Don't tease. I remember.”

“Colonel Hamilton?”

“Ms  Schuler ,” he kissed her hand, “a pleasure to see you again, allow me to introduce Colonel John Laurens.”

“A pleasure, allow me to introduce my sister...”

“Elizabeth Schuyler,” the other lady interrupted, “a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, Ma’am.”

She curtsied and he kissed her hand too.

“Forgive me for interrupting your conversation sirs, but I think my sister would like a dance.”

“A dance, I think Colonel Laurens is the one you want for that. He's been trying to teach me, but I can’t quite seem to master the steps.”

“He’s lying, and he’ll be happy to dance with you, Ma’am.”

John gave him a small shove and he laughed as he joined Miss Elizabeth Schuyler on the dance floor.

She was beautiful, and as they talked, he found she was intelligent and kind and outspoken.

An incredible patriot too. More passion than many of the men in the army seemed to have.

His heart belonged to John, and yet, if he were to be forced to marry for his status, and let's face it, they both would be, she was the type of woman he could grow to love all to easily.

.

.

.

“You danced with the beautiful Miss Schuyler for quite a while...”

Alex turned onto his side on the bed, watching John remove the outer layers of his clothing. He'd already stripped to his  smallclothes and buried himself under the blankets.

“Worry not, my dear Laurens, there are no wedding bells ringing on the horizon. Her father flat out refuses to let her marry someone of my perceived status. We both knew it the second I told her of my background as an orphan from the Caribbean, hell, my hesitation to say where I was from at all, her face just fell. I felt bad, genuinely.”

“But after the war, when you're Alexander Washington again...”

“After the war, who knows. I will likely be more than acceptable in her father's eyes. And I think she would be acceptable in mine. He kept giving me looks, John.”

“How do you  think her father will feel when he  realises, he rejected the ‘prince’ of America?”

“We’re fighting against a Monarchy, love, I'm no prince.”

“Could you marry her? Could you love her? Could you be happy?”

“I... I hate these conversations.”

The bed sank as John sat next to him, brushing his hands distractingly through Alex’s hair.

“I know. But it is the reality we face. It is illegal to love as we love, we both knew this could never last. My father has plans for me to marry, she is a sweet woman, but I feel no attraction to her. One of the reasons I chose to leave and fight rather than to go into the political route was the same reason I was in York City when we met, to escape this wedding as long as possible. Please, Lex, when you are to be married, make sure it is someone you can love. I can't imagine the General won’t afford you that.”

“I’m sure I could love her, John. I could. But to betray you...”

“As long as I hold a place in your heart, it could never be a betrayal. This is the way it must be, and I want your happiness more than anything.”

Alexander pressed his forehead to John’s, relishing the closeness.

“You will always have a place in my heart. Always.”

John smiled, pushed him onto his back and straddled him, working to remove Alex’s shirt with one hand and using the other to bring Alexander’s wrist to his lips, kissing the inside at the pulse point.

Alex melted into the touch and allowed John to show him how loved he was.

.

.

.

“So, Elizabeth Schuyler?”

Alex dropped his stack of papers on the desk with a sigh.

“Please don’t.”

“No?”

“Her father would not approve of a man of my perceived standings, and in finding out about this... rouse, or thinking on that he rejected me the first time, it is unlikely to happen.”

“You looked happy with her though.”

Alex perched himself on the edge of his desk with a sigh.

“She was kind, and smart, more strong willed than I think most would credit her to be.”

“Then you should try, after the war.” 

“I’ve met her once.”

“I want you to be happy, and Martha wants grandchildren.”

“ You mean , you want grandchildren.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I will get married, I will, I just... a year ago I was an orphan without a dollar to my name, astounded I’d lived as long as I did. Now... a lot has changed, too much. I can’t think about weddings or lifelong commitments. She deserves someone a little less messed up, and... and, I'll need time if that’s going to be me. Besides, meeting once is hardly love. In time I am sure I can find love, but I will not rush it.”

He ignored his fathers pressed lips, and the slight concern in his eyes. At least, ignored them as best he could.

“When the war is over, Alex, please consider it. Life doesn’t settle, there’s always something new. If you’re always waiting, you’ll miss your chance. I want you to be happy.”

“I know, but I don’t want to ruin someone else's life because we tried to force something that wouldn’t work. Loveless marriage and social obligations. Someone like Elizabeth Schuyler deserves better than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple of people have asked in the comments, and given the contents of this chapter, I'd like to explain that Alexander is Bi, and while currently in love with a man, in the future he might fall in love with a woman. It's not love at first sight, but he and John know that when the War ends they will need to separate. If Alexander falls in love after that, it will be genuine.   
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	22. Alexander, February, 1780

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

Alexander tasted mud and blood.

There was a heavy weight on top of him, and the sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears.

Beside him he heard General Washington’s voice giving orders to find where the shot had come from, and the last few seconds clicked.

Gunshot.

Someone had shot at them.

In camp?

The weight lifted, and he rolled over. 

It was Ben, Ben who had thrown him to the ground just in time. Beside him, O’Conner, one of the General’s lifeguards, was attempting to keep him down until they were sure the assassin was gone.

Ben’s own hands were forcing him down, not that he was planning on getting up while there was a gun trained on him. He didn’t necessarily worry; he wasn’t the target. Why shoot at an aide when the General was right there?

There was worry in Ben’s eyes, right until the guards returned saying they’d found the weapon but no-one with it footprints in the mud leading back into the camp but no clues as to who it may have been.

The threat had passed, for now.

“We need to get you inside, Sir, there could be a second shooter.”

“Find this assassin, Major. Colonel Hamilton, are you alright?”

“Yes sir.” he wiped at his mouth, getting rid of some of the mud and blood, and followed them to the main house.

Gunshots went off all the time, but the reaction of those who’d seen or been near enough had triggered something through the whole camp. From the second the shot had sounded, the camp had gone onto alert, and there were simultaneously too many and enough people around him. If there was a shooter, it would be hard for them to kill their General with a line of sight so obscured by the crowd, but if the assassin was in the masses around them, with a knife or some other near range weapon, there was huge risk.

As soon as they were inside, his father let the fearless façade drop.

“Hamilton, you’re bleeding.”

There were still people in the room who didn’t know the truth about them, so obviously he couldn’t drop it completely, but he was allowed to be worried for himself and Alexander in private.

“I bit my lip when I went down, sir, I'm fine. I can’t believe someone actually took a shot at you, sir, for all the assassination plots, this was bold.”

“We will find them, sir.”

“Do we have suspects, Major?”

“Nothing yet sir.”

“I’m not changing my routine if I can help it, for the sake of morale, we need to keep things going.”

“Theres no way to hide this, sir, half the damn camp saw it happen.”

“I know, Major, I know, but we cannot be weak. We must be careful, I know, but we must also protect our cause.”

“Sir, with respect, protecting you is a large part of protecting the cause.”

Benjamin was right, protecting their General protected them. If he was caught or killed, it was the end, and still he wanted to go out there for strength’s sake.

And his father thought he was careless with his own life.

.

.

.

Eventually Alexander had retreated to his desk. His father and Benjamin and most of the other higher-ranking people in the camp, including several visiting generals, were working out some sort of plan to add protections and find the traitors.

But mostly they were milling around, hoping they’d get something to work with, that the guards would catch someone or find some evidence.

Alexander couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in his nature. He was stressed and worried and someone had tried to kill his father and all together that was far too much energy for him to just stand around and do nothing, so he’d sat himself down and started on the next batch of paperwork he’d needed to go through.

Someone had tried to kill his father, out in the open, in camp, right next to him.

Hell, the shot had been close enough to hit him, had Ben not pulled him down. Alexander tried to tell himself that because the shot had been so close to him it at least meant the assassin was a bad shot, but he couldn’t get past the worry that it was a fluke and that next time they wouldn’t miss.

He remembered what his father had said about his being in danger from assassins if the British learnt about him, about how much danger he would be in, how they could get people into camp.

He hadn’t really thought about it.

He knew it had happened before, Ben had been distraught when Mr  Sackett , his mentor, had been murdered and still woke up from nightmares about it, but really, he hadn’t taken the thought too seriously.

Besides, this was different, this wasn't a British assassin pretending to defect to them in order to get a chance at killing someone important, this was someone in their own camp. Someone they trusted.

Weirdly, it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to kill his father, when he was a child several people had tried to kill James Hamilton Sr for various reasons. Alexander had never really cared, not beyond the fiscal ramifications. Hell, once when he’d been 14, he’d stood aside and let them go after him on the docks. It was the first time he’d seen the man since he left four years prior and Alexander had been angry enough not to care if he lived or died, even without knowing the truth.

Alexander had bumped into the man an hour prior to the men who wanted him dead showing up, and of all things offered him a job, acting as though he’d never rejected them at all. But when Alex had refused, the man had knocked him to the floor and said things Alexander would never dare repeat aloud but found himself repeating all too often in his head. They weren’t even that rude, or vulgar or vile, just soul-crushing and worst of all, honest. Not that Alexander hadn’t said his share, blaming the man for his  Maman’s death, for abandoning them, for not showing up when she was sick, even when Alex had written and begged.

He had survived, but Alexander hadn’t seen him since, and there was a dark part of him that hoped someone had succeeded. No-one could ever know that, though.

But here, he was actually worried.

He finished and moved the stack of papers and moved onto the next.

This was his father, his real father. This was family he wanted and who wanted him.

He couldn’t lose that.

He couldn’t lose them.

He didn’t look up when the door opened, or when it closed. That was probably a stupid thing to do when there was an assassin in the camp, but they had no reason to attack an Aide and the building was heavily guarded.

“Alexander, let me look at your lip.”

Alex put down his quill and let his father check him over, probing the tender area slightly before stroking his cheek.

“It doesn’t look bad. Are you alright?”

Was it bad that the genuine concern still surprised him when he heard it?

“I’m fine, pa, it’s just sore. What about you? You were the one they took a shot at.”

“They missed, by quite a lot if Ben’s right, and he usually is. Though I'm not particularly enjoying being stuck in here, nor having most of my advisors telling me it's safer to stay where it will be harder for an assassin to get to me.”

“Did you consider they might be right?”

“I’m a General, my job is to lead from the front. I can’t hide.”

“Would you like some paperwork to do while you wait?”

Alex gestured at the papers with a grin, doing his best to mask at the wince pulling at the lip caused.

“Don’t be cheeky. And no, because not everyone processes their worry by working themselves to death, Alexander. Did you even notice the sun set?”

The sun had set?

Alex was almost ashamed at his whipping around to look out the window and see that it was indeed dark outside. The window was small and north facing so the room was typically lit by candles anyway.

His father sighed, and squeezed his shoulder.

“You need to rest, Alexander.”

He did, and he shocked himself with how weary he sounded when he next spoke.

“They’ve never been so bold before.”

His father’s hand squeezed his shoulder and he let his head drop backwards.

“No, they haven’t. But it might mean they’re getting desperate, that they know they’re going to lose if they don’t do something drastic.”

“Or it means they want the war over now. Maybe they have another spy they want to put into place as Commander-in-Chief with you dead. They have people in the camp and... and they want you dead, pa. They shot at you... what if they...?”

“You doubt Benjamin?”

“I fear men like Robert Rogers. Like John André. Like Gamble or Bradford. I fear that they have turned one of ours against us. I fear...”

He cut himself off. He couldn’t appear weak. He wasn’t a small child who needed to hide behind his father's legs wrapped into his cloak. He'd never had that before; he didn’t need it now.

His father started moving his work, and capped the ink bottle. 

“We will weather this, Alexander, we will.”

He sank into the offered hug.

“Get some sleep, Alexander. We’ll approach this again tomorrow.”

He didn’t protest, just bade his father goodnight and let his exhaustion take him as soon as he found his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	23. Benjamin, February, 1780.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

Ben fiddled with the bullet hole in the wood. Something didn’t add up. This shot, it would never have hit the General, even before they pulled him to the ground.

If anything, it was aimed at where Alex had been standing, but it still would have missed him.

Was the assassin merely a bad shot?

It didn’t add up, he didn’t like it. In his gut, he had the same feeling as before  Sackett had been murdered.

When it had looked like an assassin was after Washington, but he wasn’t their target at all.

He looked at the bullet hole again.

And where he and Alexander had been standing, where they’d gone to ground. Alexander had paused his pace to ask something, had he not, would he have been in line for the shot?

Why would someone attack an aide-de-camp, unless they knew...?

Who knew?

The Washingtons, himself, Lafayette, Laurens, Billy Lee, Arnold, Burr, the doctor, the lawyer.

Not three days past he’d been griping, “There’s been a leak, Caleb, someone high up, but I have no idea who.”

He'd spent so much of the last few days stressing over the new information leak. Almost every person on the list of people who knew about Alexander were high enough in rank to know the information being leaked to the British, save the doctor and the lawyer, it wasn’t either of them. 

Struck by a worrying realisation, he turned on heal and walked to his own tent.

Only one of them was out of camp, away from the main group, out of Ben’s sight.

He riffled through the small stack of letters he kept concealed in a box under his bed, finding the one he was looking for.

_ Benjamin, _

_ I know you are a good, honourable man, which is why it genuinely worries me that you are working where you are. _

_ It is not that I don’t trust Washington, I do, and I know he truly believes his course is the right one, but intelligence, spy work, it is dangerous. Not only in that you will have a target on your back, but because it will taint your soul.  _

_ How can you do this to yourself? _

_ Benjamin, this spy work, it makes you paranoid and untrusting and suspicious, it will remove all bonds of friendship and create for you nothing but a solitary eternity. I have seen it before, and I loathe the idea of it happening to someone as honourable as you. Is winning the war worth your soul when there are other ways to guarantee victory. We have strength and bravery in our men, you need not make this sacrifice. _

_ I offered you before a position by my side, as my second, and this offer is still open to you. You'd have a better position with me. I am sure you are aware of my new position at West Point, it is in dire need of renovation, your efforts would be well appreciated here. _

_ Washington may be willing to sacrifice your soul but I am not. _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Benedict Arnold. _

He hadn’t necessarily counted Arnold as a friend, and although he had been willing to see the man as honourable and defend him in times gone by, there were things in this letter that worried him. He knew the man was bitter about his posting in Philadelphia, knew he was angry over something money related, but... treason, surely not. 

He was bitter, but surely he wasn’t that bitter. 

After all, Washington had given him a command, a fort if not active battle, and they had fixed his money issues, had they not?

Arnold knew about Alexander; Arnold had the information afforded to a General...

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

“You must find this leak, and the assassin.” Washington had ordered, “Do so at your own discretion.”

He picked up a quill and paper before he could doubt himself.

_ General Benedict Arnold, _

_ I appreciate your offer, I do, but I cannot leave now.  _

_ This must be kept in strictest confidentiality, but we have had strife in camp as of late. I am sure you have been informed, or will be soon, but there was an attempt on the life of General Washington a day past. I have been tasked with finding them, but as of yet I do not know where to begin. _

_ Atop this, we struggle with a spy, leaking our information to the enemy. I have no leads to their identity yet either. It is driving me to distraction. I have checked the alibis of every man in camp I suspected could have been a traitor, even a British spy we have been feeding false information to these last few months, and yet they all could be accounted for. I do not wish to disappoint the General, but I, well, it does not matter, this was not a letter to complain in.  _

_ I was writing to thank you for your letter, and to ask for your honest advice in the strictest of confidences. _

_ I appreciate your worries for me, I know well enough what you mean about paranoia and suspicion, and I'm willing to admit there are days I find myself doubting the words of my friends, days wherein I realise distrust becomes my default. _

_ But it is a path I'm willing to walk. The British know too well that intelligence is where true strength lies in war, that no amount of men can beat tactical decisions made by those who know what they are doing. They have spies in our camps, spies in high ranking positions, knowing things the regular foot soldier does not. There is a spy and an assassin and they are not one and the same. The British have people everywhere, and we have few.  _

_ I cannot help but sit up some nights and wonder how John André manages it all. _

_ We require a flow of information, and I will manage any weight to keep it flowing. We need them. _

_ Still, I am honoured that you give me a refuge, someone to talk with about things I do not dare utter aloud to the people I spend time with daily. I am honoured you offer me a place at your side. _

_ Thank you. _

_ You friend,  _

_ Benjamin  _ _ Tallmadge _ _. _

The letter was tactically worded. He designed it to be friendly and trusting, as if he was sharing information with a trusted confident. 

He mentioned the assassination, but that it was for Washington. If Benedict was a traitor, he would think Benjamin was fooled.

He mentioned a spy being fed false information. There was none, but again, if he was a traitor, that would alarm them, and perhaps cause strife with any real spies in their camp.

He mentioned a traitor, but alluded to having no idea who it was. 

Paranoid, untrusting and suspicious.

Benedict Arnold wasn’t wrong about that.

If Arnold was not a spy, the message was not written in a way that would cause mistrust. It would be a friend asking for advice and little more.

The letter left with the midnight dispatches.

Ben didn’t sleep that night.

.

.

.

Three days later Caleb rode into camp with an urgent message.

“Caleb what is it?”

“Message from Culper Jr, he heard someone reporting to André that the planned assassination attempt of Washington Jr had failed and to ask if a second attempt should be made. André has ordered them not to stop until he’s dead or in British hands. But I was confused, because it says Jr, which must be a code or something and there is no... Ben?”

Jr. 

Washington Jr. 

This confirmed that they knew. They knew about Alexander; the shot had been for him. 

Washington had to know.

“Ben wait,” a hand grabbed his sleeve before he could run from his tent, “who’s Jr?”

“I’m not allowed to say, but...” 

“Bull-shite, Ben, how long we’ve known each other?”

“I was ordered to say nothing. I know you can figure it out, Caleb, and I'll ask if I can let you in on it.”

He hated that Caleb didn’t know, he wanted Caleb to know, but that was up to the General.

He bolted across camp to the General, not caring that he was in a meeting.

“Sir, we need to talk, it’s urgent.”

“Major, really, whatever this is it can wait; I mean...”

Washington cut off the outraged Colonel, Wielding if he was correct, before he could finish with an, “Excuse us.”

The men filtered out and as soon as the door closed, the General rounded on him, “What is it?”

“Culper Jr reports hearing of a failed attempt on the life of Washington Jr, and orders of more to follow. Sir the attack earlier this week, the ball was far closer to where Alexander and I were standing than you. I think they know.”

Washington dropped into his chair, pulling a hand down his face.

“Did Culper Jr say how they might have known?”

“No, just that he was in danger.”

“There are so few people that know, how could André?”

“We could have been betrayed by one of the few, or maybe someone was overheard, maybe a spy for the Redcoats put it together?”

“You have an idea of who you think it is, don’t you?”

“I don’t know sir, and it would be an awful accusation if I were wrong. And I could easily be wrong, but there are things that just... unnerve me, they don’t add up. Or I'm being over paranoid. It is all gut based; I have no proof yet.”

“Yet?”

“I sent a letter, if I am right, the response may tell me so.”

“I want to know as soon as you have something to give me.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And protect Alexander. In fact, ask him to see me once I've finished my meeting, he needs to know and I should be the one to tell him.”

“Of course, sir.”

.

.

.

Ben had rounded up several suspects over the days since the first shot had been fired, but while guilty of planned desertion and a myriad of other minor crimes, he had no proof that any of them had taken the shot.

In fact, he was almost certain none of them had taken the shot.

Then, he’d been given the news that whoever it was had their sights set on Alexander, not the General, and he knew none of those men knew. That morning he’d discovered, and informed the General, that the threat was towards Alexander. He’d been looking for the wrong thing, and he needed to cast a different net if he was going to find this assassin before they struck again.

He'd been working through his paperwork, onto the second hour of ignoring his lunch when the messenger arrived.

“ Tallmadge , come quick.”

He leapt to his feet, running after the messenger already running back to where he’d come from.

To the General’s headquarters.

Oh Lord.

Alex!

He stopped short one entering the room. The tables were askew a plate knocked to the floor, and the doctor was leant over the man gasping and spasming on the floor.

“Ben?”

He spun to his side and there was Alexander, alive and well and terrified.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“It was my plate, Ben. I skipped the meal, Joey asked if he could have it, I said yes. Oh god, Ben, I said yes...”

Joey, Joseph Miller, the aide on the floor. 

“It was not your fault, Alexander.”

“This is why you wanted me to speak with the General, isn’t it?”

Ben dropped his voice into a whisper, pulling Alexander slightly out of the room.

“Intelligence suggests a series of attacks planned on Washington Jr. The gunshot last week was also meant for you.”

“Oh God.”

“We will catch this assassin, Alex, I promise.”

“It was meant for me.”

“Does the General know yet? About Miller?”

“His meeting isn’t over yet.”

Despite the work of the doctor, Miller went still on the floor and the doctor shook his head.

Miller was dead, and Alexander would have been if he hadn’t skipped the meal.

Who’d had access to Alexander’s meals? Who could have done this?

Ben started compiling a list in his head as he moved Alexander out of the way as they removed Miller’s body, making him sit on the stairs. Washington needed to hear this, and the shock of the situation was setting in on Alexander.

There was a big difference between being shot at on a battlefield and someone poisoning your food.

He had half a mind to send Alexander to General Washington’s room and assign him a guard, but there were enough awful rumours going around camp without Alexander being sent to Washington’s room to wait for him, the only thing that would help is the people spreading the rumours.

“What happened!”

Washington had the worst timing, coming out of his meeting, either because it was finished or because of the commotion, to see them stretching out a body not three hours after being told there was an assassin after his child with said child out of direct sight.

“Sir!” Alexander shot to his feet from the stairs, almost falling, and Washington’s whole body displayed his relief.

“Perhaps this is a conversation for private sir.”

“Indeed.”

Washington dismissed everyone who wasn’t necessary back to their work and returned to the meeting room, and invited those he kept behind to sit.

“Hamilton’s meal was poisoned, sir,” Ben said, finally responding to the question asked, “only he skipped it, again.”

There was no-one in the room that didn’t have the clearance to know that there had been an attack, even if they didn’t know why. Besides, the British knew, Alexander wouldn’t be a secret much longer, and it might help to have some of their other higher-ranking officers in the know.

Lafayette knew, Laurens knew, Burr knew, he knew, Alex and the General obviously knew, everyone else had cleared out save three others, Gates, Greene and Knox.

It was Washington’s decision, and he made it, thanking God aloud and checking Alexander, despite Alexanders insistent reassurances that he hadn’t ingested any of the poison.

Three more people were learning their secret.

Three more people were learning the truth.

“Why would they target an aide?”

“Because Alexander isn’t just an aide, he’s my son.”

“And the British know, sir. This is the second attack; our intelligence was accurate.”

“How could they know; we’ve been so careful?” Washington asked, “They might have suspected something or heard rumour, but to actually know...”

“Are we certain they know for sure and that this isn’t just an attack on the General’s staff?” 

Lafayette’s question was redundant and Ben was pretty sure he knew it.

“The report said Washington Jr. There have been two attacks. They know about Alexander. Sir.”

“Wait,” Greene was the first to shake off his surprise, “he’s your son? As in...”

“Mine and Martha’s son. And the whole story is too long for this meeting.  Tallmadge , any leads on the assassin?”

“Nothing yet sir, I'm sorry.”

“Do you have guards on him, Sir?” Gates asked, looking as though he was still struggling a little to get his head around it all.

“Guards put more of a target on Alexander’s back. It gives the people who don’t know a reason to attack.”

“It seems as though the attackers will come regardless, sir.” retorted Burr, “How could they know?”

“That’s the issue,” The General replied, “we don’t know. It should have been a secret.”

“I don’t want to think any of the people we told would betray us, but we have to entertain it as a possibility. That or we’ve been overheard at one point.”

“You think they’ll try again?”

“We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, that was a long one, I hope that makes up for only having a few more chapters of this actually written and my muse in the wind. I do have lots of snippets and bits, but only the rest of this arc in whole chapters.   
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	24. Francis Wielding, February, 1780.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I'm back.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

His first two attempts had failed. The gunshot had, admittedly, gone wide by far. The poison had been so close, he’d had been given the perfect opportunity to lace it when  Tallmadge had burst into their meeting, providing him an excellent alibi and it had made it into the room, but the bastard had decided not to eat.

The future of the Colonies rested on his killing the boy.

Worse,  Tallmadge was getting too close. He'd started rounding people up and Francis was certain that soon enough he’d be caught. After all, how many people had access to the brat’s food or the rooms it would have been in. That had been his whole issue, poison but no way to administer it without suspicion. They'd know it was him all too soon.

Chances were he’d only escaped their eye so far because he was a guest in their camp, representative of General Arnold, who could not make the journey. Not that the great Hero of Saratoga knew of his plans against the ‘secret prince of America’. 

Patriotic bastard.

So, this time he was going in with a knife, and he wasn’t stopping until one of them was dead.

Preferably the brat.

Luck, however, was on his side. Washington didn’t seem to want to leave the boy at any point completely on his own now he knew someone was trying to kill him, but he seemed content to leave him with  Tallmadge . The two of them were in an office,  Tallmadge working on something intelligence related, and the brat working on his own paperwork.

They were once again burning the midnight oil, and not long after sundown, the building emptied. 

No-one was there.

Well, no, the General himself was there, upstairs if he was right, hopefully asleep. And  Tallmadge and his target and maybe one or two other people, but it was as empty as it would get.

Around 2 in the morning, the brat fell asleep.

He listened in from his place under the window as the boy admitted that he was done and needed some sleep, but that he didn’t want to inconvenience  Tallmadge who wasn’t leaving his side until the threat passed or someone else took over protection duty, so he was going to sleep on the settee that had been moved aside when they’d been allowed to use this home as a headquarters.

It was perfect.

He cracked the door open and slipped in quietly. He didn’t want to be caught in the building before he got to his target, but as predicted, the building was empty. 

As was the office.

Best of all,  Tallmadge was sitting with his back to Francis, focused on his paperwork. His head and shoulders shot upwards at the sound of his footsteps, but it was no effort at all to slam the hilt of his blade over the back of his head and send him quietly to the ground, helping him down to stop any noise that might alert someone, wincing at the sound the boy’s gun made as it clattered out of his grasp and skittered across the floor.

It was a damn shame the British insisted on keeping  Tallmadge alive, because it would have been easy enough to slit his throat here. He then quietly pulled a desk across the doorway.

Finally, he looked at Alexander Washington.

The boy seemed even younger when he was asleep and unguarded. Francis knew they said he was over 20, but he looked about 18 when he was awake, and here, you could easily mistake him for younger, 15-16. Small, thin, almost effeminate frame that Francis knew came from years of not having eaten enough, in the time he’d been removed from his father’s care. He looked like Washington though, very much so. 

He wasn’t willing to mess this up though, not again, so stepping over  Tallmadge , he picked up a pillow from one of the armchairs. He wasn’t going to let the boy yell out and let anyone know he was there, and if he couldn’t breathe properly, he wouldn’t fight properly. He was definitely going to stab the boy, maybe slit his throat, because if it was bloody it would hurt Washington more, but he needed the boy to be pliant.

He had to do this properly.

Readjusting his grip on the knife so he would not harm himself, he straddled the boy, using his full weight to pin him, and pressing the cushion over his face with both hands.

Immediately the boy woke, and Francis could feel the panic from the boy underneath him as he scrabbled at the cushion and tried to work out what was happening as he lurched from sleep to wake only to be smothered. He needed to wait until the boy was too weak to fight before he could relinquish his hold to stab him.

The boy was yelling, calling for help, and Francis was willing to bet that if he lifted the pillow his eyes would glisten with tears and his face would be red and blotchy, like his brother's had been. It would be beautiful. 

All too soon, the struggle dropped off, the hands going limp and body  laxing .

Hopefully, he was still awake to experience his own death.

He lifted the pressure and re-readjusted his grip on the knife ready for the killing blow before he threw the cushion aside to see that the boy was awake, but his eyes didn’t shine with the beautiful, dazed, disoriented, oxygen-deprived fear the way his past victims had.

It was focused ferocity.

And then his back hit the floor and the boy was on top of him, wrestling the knife from him.

Clever boy.

Still, he had to be weakened and Francis planned on taking advantage of that, twisting the boy agin onto his back, now on the floor, conscious of every noise it made, the thunk of the boy’s head and back, his gasp, but also the clatter of the knife.

God, the look in the boy’s eyes was feral, and the boy’s nails drew blood against his cheek with one hand, before the other fist slammed into the side of his head.

He wrapped one hand around the boy’s throat and pressed the other over his mouth, only to recoil as the boy bit him. 

Bit him!

He slammed his fist into the side of his mouth, feeling the bone give. It would be just as effective at keeping him quiet. 

He looked at the bite marks and the small blooms of blood from it as the boy tried to blink his daze away, and reached for the knife, shifting his grip from neck to shoulder and pressing it down.

The boy had to abandon his assault on his face in order to stop the blade, and even then, judging from the flash of fear and discomfort not quite masked by the terrifyingly savage glare, the cold blade had met flesh. Or maybe it was the pressure on his shoulder, Francis knew it was damaged.

Francis was forced to put a second hand on the knife as the boy’s hidden strength showed, struggling to keep it from breaking the skin.

In a battle of strength eventually he’d win, but there were other people in the camp and anyone could walk in, even at this time of night. What if Washington wanted to see his son?

He had to do this fast.

Then something collided with the back of his head and he dropped the knife again, knocked off the boy’s body enough for him to wiggle loose.

Francis whipped his head side to side looking for who had attacked him, only to realise it had been the boy’s foot.

The boy scrabbled backwards and Francis lunged for the knife before following. There was no way he was getting to the main door, but he could get to the window or another door, that he was pretty sure was just a cupboard, but wasn’t certain.

The boy made it to his feet, eyes going wide at the state of  Tallmadge , and one hand cupping the blood on his throat. Falling knives could do some damage, it seemed.

He knew as well as Francis did, he wasn’t getting out the main door.

The boy dove forwards, to his surprise, and delivered a strong blow, before one was returned in kind, throwing him back across the room. He weighed so little; he was so satisfyingly easy to throw. Reminded him of some of the young women he’d killed in the past.

He picked the boy up and slammed his head into the window, losing his patience, but the boy wasn’t as stunned as he would have hoped and slammed an inkwell into his head, followed by a kick to his stomach, a blow to his nose and a kick to his kneecap.

The knife was lost in the scuffle as they traded blows. It was a scrappy fight, not a precise one.

He didn’t care about not having the knife, he’d take great pleasure in watching the life leave his eyes as he struggled under the hands around his throat. He'd squeeze the life from the damned brat.

Still, the window would draw attention and the last thing he needed was for someone to look through it and see, so he managed a good grip on the boy’s throat, enjoying the rippling of the muscles in struggle, and hauled him into the cupboard.

The boy kept clawing, but Francis ignored it.

It was a large cupboard, maybe originally a pantry, more than large enough for him to hold the boy down and take his life.

The boy wheezed, choked, and Francis delighted in every second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, progress update, my short hiatus was in hope that inspiration would hit, but it's remained firmly in Star Wars. I have one more chapter written after this one, and a few things for later in the story, but nothing bridging them. Next weeks chapter will be the last one before another, official Hiatus. Thank you for your patience.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	25. George, February, 1780

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, and the last before this fic goes on hiatus, but more on that in the end notes.  
> I don't own.  
> Please enjoy.

George knew he needed sleep, but how could he sleep when there was an assassin after Alexander?

Instead, he just lay in his bed, awake, trying to work out how to keep his little one safe.

Part of him wished his Martha had made it to camp this year, so he’d have someone with him, someone to talk to. 

But then, she’d be in danger too, and she’d be suffering too, maybe also a target, and he couldn’t lose them both.

But he was glad he stayed awake, because otherwise he might not have heard the sound of a window shattering downstairs.

He'd almost thought he was imagining it, but then there was a thump.

Alexander!

He shot up, grabbing his jacket and pistol and running down the stairs. Alexanders usual desk in the aide's area was empty, but he doubted Alexander had left.

There was a thunk, and he spun around. 

Benjamin’s office. 

Alexander was not supposed to leave Benjamin, or more accurately, Benjamin wasn’t allowed to leave Alexander except with someone else he trusted. And Benjamins office was across the hall.

He pushed the door, but it was blocked by something.

He shoved hard, and it gave, and the first thing he saw was Benjamin, sprawled unconscious on the floor, then the blood by the settee, the shattered window.

For a second, he was back in the Caribbean, and it was Martha not Benjamin, bleeding on the floor, his son nowhere to be seen.

No.

Not again.

Please God, if you give me nothing, do not take my son from me again.

He needed to get guards, a medic.

He needed to find Alexander.

It was luck that the slightly open door caught his eye.

Luck that in the candlelight he saw blood on the cupboard door handle.

There was a part of him that didn’t want to open that door, because if he opened it and Alexander lay dead...

But he had to know.

Alexander sat slumped, bloodied and bruised, against one of the walls. Another man, the assassin he assumed, lay unmoving on the floor, knife in his back. They were both covered in blood.

And then Alexander raised his head.

He was alive.

He was alive, Thank God.

“Alex! Son.”

He didn’t hesitate to gather his son in his arms and remove him from the cupboard, to a better space.

Alexanders eyes were fluttering, his jaw swollen and bruised, his throat bleeding.

Oh his son.

He laid the boy as gently as he could on the floor and ran for one of the guards at the building's door, asking them to go for a doctor and a stretcher, then ran back, dropping to his knees at his little one’s side. 

Alexander's hand clasped and squeezed his own, in attempt to convey what he could not say with his jaw how it was, and his eyes fluttered closed.

The medics moved faster than he could have hoped, rushing him onto a stretcher and into the medical tent.

Another stretcher came for Benjamin, who worryingly hadn’t yet woken. 

And then he had to check the assassin. Not just because he had to know the man was either dead or in their custody, but because he was a General and that was what he was supposed to do.

The man was very dead, the knife deep in his back, with three other stab wounds next to it. And there was another, he noticed on further inspection, deep in the side of his neck.

That had been the killing blow, he was sure. 

So Alexander had managed to wrestle his knife from him, stab his neck, and had then stabbed the back to be sure he was dead, before collapsing. His poor son had survived a brutal attack from a man so much larger than him, and George shuddered. There hadn’t been enough people guarding his little one. He'd nearly been killed; they’d come so close to taking his precious boy from him.

Two of the guards rolled the man over, he recognised the face to be Francis Wielding, and through his horror he was impressed to see the scratch marks over his face and bruises too. Alexander had put up one hell of a fight.

He needed to see his son. He needed to know he was ok.

Alexander was out of sight with the doctor when he made it to the medical tent, but Benjamin had woken.

“Sir, what happened? Alexander?”

“He’s alive. You were attacked, but you’re both alive.”

“I don’t... I don’t remember...”

“You were knocked in the back of the head,” the doctor wrapping his head said, “it’s not surprising. I'm amazed you can see, often a wound like this temporarily blinds.”

Blinds. Benjamin could have been blinded.

“I'm sorry, sir. I failed.”

“No, Major, you didn’t. He's alive. He's alive.”

With Brewster at the door and Benjamin in capable hands, he went to see the doctor treating Alexander. The doctor caught him at the door, blocking his entry to the room until he’d explained the extent of Alexanders injuries.

“He’ll be fine, General. It'll take some time to recover, and I'm a little worried about his shoulder, but then again, I'm always worried about that. His jaw isn’t broken, just dislocated, and not badly. More bruising than anything else, as with his hands and torso. Most of the blood wasn’t his, and the cut on his neck wasn’t deep. The bruises on his throat are more worrying, but again, with time he should heal without issue.”

“His throat,” George muttered, “he was strangled.”

“Yes, sir, from the wounds I'd guess the knife was used first, then lost in the struggle, so he tried strangling instead. He came close to succeeding too.”

Alexander had managed to get a hold of the knife, saved himself just in time.

Oh, his little treasure. 

With the explanation over, he’d been let into the room and George couldn’t tear his eyes from the bruising. There was so much bruising.

“Is there any damage to his eye?”

“It doesn’t look like it, just bruising. He's been very lucky, sir. Lucky indeed."

George sank into the seat next to the bed, clasping Alexander’s hand gingerly, so completely terrified of hurting him further.

His little one, his little Alex, oh God, why? 

Why was he such a failure of a father that he could not protect the one person he truly wanted to protect? 

He looked so young, so small, nestled in bedding and bandage, life nearly stolen once again because George could not protect him.

How could the British have found out about him?

Had they been betrayed or were the British smarter than he’d expected?

Did it matter, they’d sent someone to murder his son.

His little one.

“I’ll be back to check on him in an hour, sir. We have guards posted by the doors.”

“Thank you.”

He dropped his head on the side of the bed, not bothering to hold back a sob. This was his son, his baby, and he was hurt. He'd barely survived it and it was so unjust. If he had done something worthy of punishment, should he not bare it. Why should a child bare the sins of the father?

Why should his darling boy suffer so?

The bruising, the whole side of his face, jaw, eye, all of it was swollen and mired with colour. Even with the blood washed away, it was horrific, maybe worse, as it was no longer masked.

Then his neck, not only the cut from where Wielding had tried to cut his... cut his throat, but the bruising.

The hand shaped bruising!

Oh son, recover, I cannot do this alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who's read this fic, who's followed, kudosed, commented or just added a hit. This is the first thing I've ever written to get to almost 50,000 words, but I've hit a stalling point. I have more content for later in the plot, but no way to connect here to there in chapters. My muse has, at least for now, abandoned me, so this will be going on hiatus. I'm considering adding some of the later works as their own story, making this a series, but those wouldn't be chronological, or much more than snippets in some cases, just more in this AU. If you'd be interested in that, please let me know, but other than that, at least for now, this is it.  
> Thank you so much for reading, I do hope you've enjoyed.  
> For one last time, at least for now, please R+R.  
> Stay safe, all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you've enjoyed so far.  
> Please R+R.


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